


Looking Glass Cabaret

by Lymphadei



Series: Interpersonal Affairs [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cabaret, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drag Queen John, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, John is Lady Grey, M/M, Men in fishnets, Okay maybe a little bit of plot, PWP, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6426481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Grey dropped her gaze and giggled, shaking her head. She looked up again. “Irene was right about you.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>She nodded. “She said that you were a devilish man, she could tell just by looking at you.”</p><p>Sherlock’s chest grew warm with something he would rather not analyse as he stared down into her warm gaze. “Takes one to know one.”</p><p>Lady Grey scoffed. “Oh, Irene? Devil in a red dress, of course”</p><p>Sherlock shook his head, slightly dazed and in wonder that he was standing outside in the dark, talking to a drag queen he was developing an unhealthy infatuation with every word that left her lips. “I was talking about you.”</p><p>Lady Grey leant up on her toes, her hands on either side of his neck to steady herself as she pressed her lips against Sherlock’s ear. “I wouldn’t say a devil, Mr Holmes, but I’m definitely not on the side of the angels.” Then, she pulled back slightly to place a lingering kiss on his cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lady Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! So, I had to write this short fic because the plot bunnies wouldn't leave me be. It is now **complete** and will be updated every Friday. Thank you so much to my wonderful betas [Crickette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette) and Morgan for making this fic lovely and readable. Couldn't have done it without you ladies.
> 
> This fic is heavily based on 20's-30's type music, mostly electro-swing though. If you can, please listen to the playlist as you read (if you can). It is highly recommended as it helps with the ambiance of each chapter. 
> 
> Playlist for chapter one: 
> 
> [Enter the Circus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RdsOFG-Fi4Y) by Christina Aguilera - Playing as Sherlock enters the cabaret 
> 
> [Booty Swing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9xsoCki4pTk) by Parov Stelar - John's performance

_ _

_ Jesus Christ _ , Irene was at it again, running around like a chicken with her head cut off, and dishing out orders. She shoved through the backstage with a feather boa in one hand and her ever-present phone clutched between her manicured fingernails.

John sighed, leaning into the mirror of his vanity to apply his lipstick. Any opening night with Irene Adler was bound to be hectic, and John could already feel a headache coming on.

Behind him, Sally argued with a fresh-faced queen about a feathery headdress that John personally found unflattering.

“Everyone knows this is the one that I always wear, Millie. Look, there,  _ I _ put that scratch there!”

Millie shook her head vehemently and clutched the headdress tighter. “ _I_ used it last time, Sally, I remember, because it has the turquoise feather just here!”

_ Oh, for Christ's sake. Children, the lot of them. _

“Alright ladies, places- get into your places! John, where have you been, I’ve been looking everywhere-”

“Irene, not now,” he cut in, his voice quiet, but firm. “I’m already nervous enough as it is without you fluttering around me.”

Irene grimaced, her bared shoulders falling, before she folded her arms over her chest. She was stunning, as always in her black bustier and red-feathered tail. Her dark hair was curled into rolling waves, pinned up in an intricate bun and topped off with a feather. John quite liked the colour red on Irene; it brought out the vixen in her.

“Nothing can go wrong tonight, and you know we have the worst luck on opening night, the two of us.”

True. John had worked with Irene since he was twenty-eight and fresh out of the army, skittish as a deer and in denial about who…  _ what  _ he was. He met Irene at a bar one night, noticed her immediately. She was too beautiful, out-of-place in  a hole-in-the-wall establishment like the one he’d been drinking his woes away in. Her green eyes were unusually sharp, and too intelligent for any of the stupid sods in that place, but she’d held herself as if there were no other place she belonged but there.

When those eyes landed on him - so suddenly, so unexpectedly - John looked behind himself in case there was someone there. But there wasn’t, and then she was reeling him in with a smile. Like a fish on a hook, John was unable to help his approach.

The first thing Irene said was: “You don’t belong in a place like this, darling, but I have a better alternative.”

John followed, helpless to stop himself.

What she showed John that night had been unlike anything he’d ever witnessed. It was a scene, it was a spectacle, it was- was different than any experience the world had ever offered him. In that one night, simply by being in the right place at the right time, Irene had shown him what he hadn’t even known he’d wanted. The men - no, the  _ queens _ , had been lovely and blinding in their shimmering dresses and bright make-up, no less than five-inch heels, and hair for days. It had been brilliant, and new, and  _ exciting. _

It didn’t take overnight.

Irene called and called until John answered and threatened to drag him to the club if need be. He’d been reluctant to return with her, unable to know what kind of road she’d drag him down, and though John had never told her where he lived, she’d known anyway. John eventually caved, convincing himself that it was only for Irene’s sake and not because there was something about the lights and the queens that drew him in. Before long, he was going once a week, then twice, and eventually nearly every day that he could.

Before long, he was leading a double life. Flirting with the nurses at the surgery, taking their numbers, but spending his nights wondering what he would do if they ever saw him dressed as a woman. He felt shame, not only towards himself for his desire to dress like a woman, but also for the pretence of doing things he felt no urge to do. He’d been so fucked up, so scarred from his years in the army, and he knew that he would be shit at any sort of relationship, but there was something about dressing up and being someone else that was therapeutic. So he dropped one love, and invested in the other.

Seven years later, and now John was teaching young queens how to steal a show.

Irene had made John the headliner for the opening night, and although his stomach clenched with nerves, he was excited for what would undoubtedly be a new venture in a new place. Now, if only things would go swimmingly for the night. The two of them did have the worst of luck with opening night. One memorable opening involved a broken ankle and a fire in the kitchen.

John caught Irene’s eyes in the mirror and allowed a smirk to curl the corner of his lips. “It’ll be fine, Irene,” he said, hoping to mollify her somewhat. “Look at this place you’ve got. I thought we’d be working out of seedy clubs for the rest of our careers.”

Irene relaxed her stance, chuckling softly. She moved forward to sit next to John on his padded bench. “You’ll be quite the knockout tonight, John. You always are, you bloody queen.” She tilted his face towards her, and John released a shaky breath. “We’re taking you  _ and _ the cabaret to greater heights. Now, it’s time you showed the world what Lady Grey can do.”

 

-

 

“I don’t see why you’ve dragged me to this outrageous place,” Sherlock growled as they milled in front of the heavy wooden doors of a cabaret - a  _ cabaret _ , for crying out loud! - waiting for the doorman to let them in. The room was crowded with men and women, all speaking in hushed tones. Everyone was dressed to impress, though Sherlock didn’t see the point of doing so when all eyes were supposedly going to be on the entertainment. This was hardly the type of establishment to find a life partner.

The room was cleaner than Sherlock had expected. In fact, it was rather elegant. The soft light from the crystal chandelier threw shimmering colours onto the champagne flutes, and laughing shadows on the walls. The walls of the large foyer were cream-coloured and gave the room a comfortable glow. At least there was that. Sherlock scowled, wondering if the ambience was all he’d find satisfactory about this place.

The gentleman beside him chuckled gamely, trying to smother his smirk in the glass of his champagne.

“What? What is it, Stamford?” Sherlock snapped. “What is amusing you so greatly?”

Stamford couldn’t contain this round of giggles as he caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s surly face. “Nothing,” he said, sobering at last. “I brought you here so that you could relax, if you even remember the meaning of the word.”

Sherlock scoffed and turned his attention to  the  patrons around him. Many were well on their way to intoxication, and if Stamford drank another glass, then he would be, too. Sherlock would leave him there to stumble his own way home. It would serve him right. “I don’t need to  _ relax _ ,” Sherlock sneered, growing further irritated with every moment they sat there waiting.

Stamford shrugged. “You’ve been snapping at everyone in the lab, lately, and we’ve all had just about enough of it,” he said. “I come to places like this sometimes, just to enjoy a good show, especially particularly stressful days. Maybe you’ll follow suit, if it makes you feel better.”

Slightly offended, but refusing to show it, Sherlock stuffed his free hand in his pocket. “Yes, well, I don’t see how a cabaret would help.”

Stamford just gave him a small, cryptic smile, and said, “You’ll see. There are types for everyone here.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Okay,” Stamford agreed. Damn the man for being so complaisant.

“All right: No pushing, shoving, trampling, harassing your fellow neighbour on the way in, or you’ll be promptly ejected from the cabaret!” The doorman announced. “Thank you for your patronage and we hope you enjoy the show. Welcome to Looking Glass Cabaret!”

Inside, music was just beginning to play, and slowly, the wooden doors opened, along with two heavy, red velvet curtains. The crowd moved forward, some gasping in awe while others chattered excitedly, pointing as acrobats twirled elegantly in the air, tangled in aerial silks. A beautiful, dark-haired woman in a ringleader costume shouted enthusiastically into her microphone on a protruding platform at centre stage.

Stamford watched him, he knew, but Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off the display. There were three stages, each of them showing a different scene. In the middle, a group of showgirls twirled around the stage in unison, their heads held high and posture perfect, even with the added weight of the large, feathered headdress. Which, frankly, was not at all flattering. On the second stage, a woman in a mask walked a man on a chain, pulling as he got close to the edge of the stage. In her other hand was a whip she used to tap him lightly on the back.

“Well, they say things aren’t always what they seem to be,” The ringleader crooned into the microphone, drawing the stragglers into the grand room. Waiters in uniform slid deftly through the crowd, barely stopping to allow enough time for one to grab another glass.

Sherlock tore his eyes away and waded forward through the crowd, bypassing the dining table, to drift closer to the stages.

To the left, the third stage caught his attention, drawing it to a gorgeous blonde woman reclining on a white chaise with a matching lace fan. Sherlock couldn’t see much past the pale, feathered plumes obscuring her, until they suddenly lifted away, as the ringleader bellowed, “ Is it true what they say? Is it all just fun and games, or is there more behind the makeup, and the faces full of paint?”

Sherlock’s breath caught. It was a man. When she turned fully to the crowd and pulled the fan away from the lower half of her face, only half was made up. One side was more weathered and noticeably masculine, while the other was smooth and pale, lips painted rose red. She caught Sherlock’s eyes and winked, before turning away, once again obscuring the unmade portion of her face.

“I ask you, do you want to come and play?” The ringleader said, and the showgirls sang along in unison as he spoke. He turned to Stamford for the first time since they’d walked into the room, stunned that a man so…  _ boring  _ would know of such a place.

Stamford smiled and leant in. “My wife works here,” he explained, leading Sherlock to a table as the heavy curtains fell on all three stages, blocking the peculiar woman from Sherlock’s inquisitive stare. “She said she loves it. They’ve just moved into this building from a sordid little place in a crummy area, so this is a big improvement, I’d say.”

Sherlock failed to think of a response as a waiter stopped at the table to offer them bread, wine, and a menu with no prices listed. Not inexpensive, then.

He ordered water and Earl Grey tea, while Stamford ordered a meal. Mike chatted as Sherlock peered around the room, mostly ignoring his companion. It wasn’t too much longer before the light in the room dimmed and the curtains for the centre stage drew back.

The static of a record crackled over the speakers as the spotlight brightened to reveal the woman from earlier, this time wearing a sparkling golden bustier, a bleached, feathered skirt that revealed shapely thighs, and garter belts connecting to cream-coloured stockings. The gloss of her high-heeled shoes caught the light and reflected brightly, complimenting her brilliant presentation. Sherlock swallowed. He wanted to know her name. Behind her, the other dancers faded into insignificance as the music began: fast-paced swing music.

Stamford leant over, seeing the plain curiosity written over Sherlock’s features, and whispered, “That’s Lady Grey. She’s been with Irene for quite a while. A brilliant entertainer, too.”

They started with the Charleston (he did so love to dance as a child, and Mummy had always favoured swing dancing), and Lady Grey took the centre stage flawlessly as the other dancers coupled up in the back. A man with blushing cheeks and comically thick brows wandered out on the stage, gripping his suspenders gamely. He met Lady Grey in the centre where they proceeded to do the Lindy Hop expertly, fantastically in sync on every move as if they thought with one mind. The beat picked up again, and Lady Grey’s partner lifted her until her legs could stretch comfortably on either side of his hips, for a backwards dip. The crowd clapped, some cat-calling as the feathered plumage lifted to allow more of that gartered thigh to be exposed.

Whoever she was, Lady Grey was exquisite, and Sherlock was rebuking himself for even thinking such a thing. 'She' wasn’t even a she, so why was he calling her that?

Lady Grey was doing the foxtrot with the man, now, and once again, there was not a hitch in step. When the song ended, Lady Grey kissed the man’s cheek, smiling widely, then bowed to her audience. It was a standing ovation.

 

-

 

“My God, you were lovely out there,” Irene threw herself at John the moment he saw her, gushing excitedly. “Perfectly lovely, dear. I’m so proud of you.” She pulled a smiling John back to her, remembering the confused, haunted eyes of a boy she met years ago at a bar in Bethnal Green.

John pulled his head back to kiss his friend on the cheek, before tightening his arms around her narrow waist. He didn’t know where he would be if it hadn’t been for Irene. Probably six-feet under and not receiving a standing ovation. “God, I was so bloody nervous, Irene!”

Irene laughed, the sound coming out a bit choked. She pulled back, cupping his cheeks in her hands. “I know, but you were fabulous, my dear. Now let’s get you touched up, so you can go and meet your fans.”

Irene led him through the crowd of costumed entertainers to the dressing room, where he dabbed away the sweat on his forehead with a cotton towel and reapplied his make-up. He kept the same costume, but changed wigs to a wavy blond one. Irene placed a golden-glittered band around the crown of his head and tucked the ends of his wig over into it to make the classic flapper girl up-do. Before they left the room, she gave him a silk robe to wear, though he kept it open. It was more to Irene’s taste than John’s. She enjoyed the diva look.

The bottom of the robe trailed behind him as he emerged into the grand room with Irene on his arm. The band on stage played an upbeat tune as a man in a tuxedo sang smoothly to the patrons. Some had abandoned their seats and swayed on the dance floor, while others talked over candlelight dinners.

John and Irene smiled at one another. This was a new beginning for them, the sign of greater things to come.

People stood from their seats to congratulate John on his performance, and one man even brought him a bouquet of roses. John hated roses, but the gesture was sweet, and Lady Grey would accept them graciously. He granted the man a kiss on the cheek and left him wide-eyed as Irene pulled him along.

She sent a quick, disinterested smile at someone, before leaning into John. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear, but this one looks like he’s ready to have you for dessert.”

John looked at her, then followed her eyes to the table.

It was the tall, dark-haired man from earlier, and he was more striking up close than from where he’d stood before. And he was staring right at John with those penetrating eyes of his. For the first time in years, John felt self-conscious.

“Oh, and would you look at that! He’s sitting with Melody’s husband, Michael,” Irene pointed out, smiling widely at John before she pulled him behind her. “Come, let’s give him our thanks for attending the show.”

_ Fuck. _

John didn’t want to be the one to look away first, but the man wouldn’t drop his eyes or avert them. The way his gaze was boring into John wasn’t remotely friendly, nor was it meant to repel him; the man seemed genuinely curious, but unable to contain it as his eyes slid down John’s body shamelessly. Who was this attractive man who could catch his attention in a room full of strangers?

“Michael Stamford, does your Melody know that you are here?” Irene teased, smoothly releasing John to give Stamford a short, polite hug. “And if I’d known you were bringing a guest, you surely would have had better accommodations than this,” she said, gesturing to the distance between the table and the stage.

Michael laughed with authentic delight, before smiling fondly at Irene. “Melody would kill me if I missed John’s opening night.”

Irene gave him a dry look. “It’s Lady Grey for the night.”

Michael had the grace to look properly chastised, before turning to John with a hand held out. “My apologies, Lady Grey. You were absolutely wonderful tonight.”

John took his proffered hand delicately. When he answered, he pitched his voice a register higher. “Thank you for coming to the show, Mr Stamford. You should know that I’ve been getting Melody into all sorts of trouble round here. She’s becoming quite the cheeky one.” Honestly, the woman could argue a point to the death, and give a queen a run for her money when it came to wit and charm.

Michael laughed, and John smiled placidly, unable to do much else as the eyes of the only other occupant at the table bored into him.

“Oh yes, I imagine so, Lady Grey. I wouldn’t expect anything else from my Melody.”

Irene smiled, before turning to the quiet man watching John as he took a sip of his wine. It took a moment before he snapped his eyes to Irene. “And who is your friend, if I may ask? I’ve never seen  _ you _ about.”

Michael blushed in embarrassment, rushing to speak before the man could. “I dunno where my head is today. Pardon me.” He turned to Sherlock, who stood and unnecessarily ran a hand over the immaculate lines of his lapels. “This is Sherlock Holmes. We know each other from Bart’s.”

Irene was the first to brave the quiet man, extending a small, perfectly manicured hand, which was unceremoniously engulfed by Holmes’ own. “Irene Adler, proprietor of the cabaret. Pleased to meet you.”

“And you,” Holmes said, in a voice like the silk draped over John’s shoulders. His timbre was rich and rumbling, and all too big for this whippet-thin man. John had to admit, he was a bit surprised when Sherlock summarily dismissed Irene in the space of a second, and returned his gaze to John. Up close, his stare was intensely intimate, and John was drawn in helplessly. “Lady Grey, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, holding out his hand. This time, when John offered his own hand, Sherlock turned it, palm down, and brought it up to his lips for a brief kiss that barely touched his skin. “I do believe you’ve captivated us all, tonight.”

Before, Holmes’ voice hadn’t been pitched to seduce, but this rolling, dark cadence was purely meant to incite something inappropriate in John. They held hands for longer than was needed, either of them refusing to break their connection. Whatever was happening, it was against John’s will, against his better judgement, and certainly wasn’t in his plans for the night. There was something almost electrical in their proximity, an invisible current that connected and drew them to one another. It was insane. It was insanely arousing.

The sound of clapping pulled them out of whatever moment they were having. They each took back their respective appendages and turned as the curtain closed once again. Irene looked at him with a keen gleam in her eyes, a glass of white wine in one hand and her other laid over the bicep of her opposite arm. Michael was talking to someone at the next table. Clearly, they’d been eye fucking one another for a bit too long.

Irene smiled tightly at Holmes. “Please excuse us. Lady Grey has one more performance for the night, so we will have to chat on another day, Mr Holmes. Have whatever you like on the menu; it’s on the house.”

Holmes nodded graciously before sitting down again with one last look at John.

Irene was quiet until they got to the dressing room.

“You’re going to fuck him, aren’t you?”

John spluttered, but he couldn’t say if it was from guilt or surprise. “What? Irene- hang on.  _ What? _ ”

Irene sat down at the vanity and picked up her powder puff, dipping it into the powder before dabbing her cheeks and nose with it. “If that room had been empty with just the two of you, you would have let him bend you over right there, you cad,” she murmured as she leant in to touch up the blush on her cheeks.

The fact that John couldn’t deny that she was right was telling enough. Sherlock Holmes was an attractive man, and slightly intimidating in his intensity. He nearly shivered at the memory of those soft lips pressed against his hand, and briefly wondered how they would feel on his body. “I don’t know what to make of that, or him for that matter. He didn’t alarm me any, but…” John didn't know how to finish his sentence. What was it about Holmes that made his heart rate speed up? He’d seen many attractive men, but the effect one had on him was never so acute.

“Be careful with that one,” Irene cautioned, reapplying her lipstick. “I know men like him; have had a few warm my bed before. I’m quite certain that Sherlock Holmes is a devilish man.” Irene put down the lipstick and turned to John with a wicked smirk. “But I suppose one devil always knows another.”

 

-

 

Sherlock watched Lady Grey walk away, entirely enraptured in a way he’d never been before. She was a marvel, a wonder, and the way she’d trained those eyes on him; a hint of bashfulness, nerves, and what was almost certainly attraction - mutual attraction. Sherlock didn’t often indulge in such frivolous things as sex and dating, as mundane as those activities were, but the thought of pulling Lady Grey’s gartered thighs around his waist and burying himself inside of her was intoxicating. Absently, he wondered about the man underneath it all, what he looked like without the layers of make-up, the way his voice sounded when he spoke, the colour of his eyes against the natural shade of his hair.

Sherlock watched until she disappeared behind a set of doors guarded by two thick-necked goons, still as much a mystery to him than before he’d met her.

“...erlock, all right?” Stamford. Sherlock had forgotten about him.

Sherlock shook the thoughts of Lady Grey away for the time being and focused on his companion, his lips turning down in a frown at Stamford’s comprehensive stare. Great. The doctor was usually oblivious to everything, and yet he looked as if he knew every thought crossing Sherlock’s mind at the moment.

“I’m fine,” he snarled, and stood. “I’ll return shortly.” Without another word, Sherlock skirted around the dining tables and made a beeline for the doors, aching for a cigarette to soothe his frayed nerves.

The foyer was sparsely occupied, save for a few couples slobbering over one another and a man he was certain was cheating on his husband with one of the drag queens. He lingered there for a time, observing the other club patrons and deducing them savagely in his mind, before he passed through the entrance and into the cool night air, pulling his cigarette pack and lighter from his pocket.

Sherlock tipped one cigarette out of the pack, anticipation building in his gut for the first hit of nicotine.

“Terrible habit, you know.”

Sherlock froze with the cigarette halfway to his lips and the lighter poised at the tip. Slowly, he turned his head to take in his unexpected guest. Pale pink lipstick and neck-length finger-curls; a green jacket that matched nothing she wore underneath it, a glimpse of the person beneath the layers of make-up. “Beautiful women should be wary of strangers,” Sherlock said, placing the cigarette between his lips and flicking the lighter until the flame danced at the tip. “Don’t you have another set?”

Lady Grey came to stand next to him, almost a head shorter than he, and more than formidable competition for the woman eyeing Sherlock up from the bus stop across the street. Sherlock stared down at her, and she, up at him, lips tilted up at the corner. “Needed air. It can get a bit stuffy in the back, what with all those bodies crammed into limited space.”

Sherlock smiled, one eyebrow rising in mild surprise. “Oh, you mean Lady Grey doesn’t have her own boudoir?”

Lady Grey narrowed her eyes playfully at him, snatching the cigarette from between Sherlock’s fingers. “Course I do,” she replied, bringing her painted lips to the tip of the cigarette. Sherlock watched her, wondering if this could be counted as a kiss, indirect as it was. Once he’d taken the cigarette back from her, traces of her would be left behind, her saliva, her lipstick print, and transferred to his lips. She tilted up her head and blew the smoke just to the side of his face, and returned his nicked cigarette. “Doesn’t mean I don’t have to share it with Irene, and she can be suffocating all on her own.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock, putting the cigarette to his lips and allowing the smoke to settle on his tongue, then seep down into his lungs. He exhaled, blowing the smoke to the side.

“You look like you’ve had about enough of this place for the night, too. You should go home,” Lady Grey stated, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. Sherlock resisted the urge to push her back against the brick wall and shove his hands under that jacket; he was sure that Lady Grey wouldn’t mind.

Sherlock dropped the cigarette, where it landed at his feet. He crushed it out until the glow at the tip burned out to darkened ashes. “I figured that watching you perform is an acceptable payoff for tolerating all of this,” Sherlock said bluntly, stepping close enough that Lady Grey had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

Lady Grey dropped her gaze and giggled, shaking her head. She looked up again. “Irene was right about you.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “She said that you were a devilish man, she could tell just by looking at you.”

Sherlock’s chest grew warm with something he would rather not analyse as he stared down into her warm gaze. “Takes one to know one.”

Lady Grey scoffed. “Oh, Irene? Devil in a red dress, of course”

Sherlock shook his head, slightly dazed and in wonder that he was standing outside in the dark, talking to a drag queen he was developing an unhealthy infatuation for with every word that left her lips. “I was talking about you.”

Lady Grey leant up on her toes, her hands on either side of his neck to steady herself as she pressed her lips against Sherlock’s ear. “I wouldn’t say a devil, Mr Holmes, but I’m definitely not on the side of the angels.” Then, she pulled back slightly to place a lingering kiss on his cheek.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, looking towards the entrance. “It’s almost time for me to go on.”

Sherlock didn't want her to move away. There was a scent beneath the perfume and the hair spray, something masculine that made Sherlock want to bury his face in her neck and inhale. Unfortunately, the moment couldn’t last, and Lady Grey had a show to put on.

“You should go home,” she said.

Before Sherlock realized what he was doing, his hand was reaching forward to grab her waist to stop her from going. Uncertain, Sherlock pulled her in slowly, sure that Lady Grey was allowing him to touch her so thoughtlessly. “Will I see you here again?”

Lady Grey placed her hands against his chest, not pushing or pulling, simply resting them there. “I should hope so. If not, that would mean I’m out of a job.”

Sherlock watched her for a moment longer, remembering every line of her that he could. He wouldn’t kiss her. No, that would have to be initiated at a different time, when they both weren’t high on a moment and standing in the dark. He released her and stepped away, knowing that if he didn’t, Irene might appear outside and throttle him for defiling her headliner right before a set.

“Thank you for your pleasant company, Lady Grey. I assure you, this won’t be the last time we meet.”

Lady Grey smiled, showing off two rows of pearly whites. “No, I’m quite sure of that, Mr Holmes.”

“Sherlock.”

Lady Grey’s brows furrowed in bemusement. “Sorry?”

“My name; call me Sherlock,” he said, already turning to hold the entrance door open for Lady Grey. “Mr Holmes is my elder brother, and believe me, I’d rather not be associated with the man.”

That surprised a laugh out of Lady Grey, a more natural one that sounded more like the man underneath, for which Sherlock felt an irrational burst of pride.

“As you wish,” Lady Grey conceded walking into the building and shrugging off her jacket. Those blasted garter belts. Sherlock swallowed and turned away. “Good night, Sherlock,” Lady Grey said, turning to offer Sherlock a view of finely muscled calves beneath her sheer, thigh-high stockings. Hearing her say his name made him feel things he hadn’t felt comfortable with in years.

There were so many reasons Sherlock could think of as to why he should never return, and why it would be a terrible idea to do so, yet, he knew there would be no chance of forgetting about Lady Grey. Trying to would only drive him mad.

Sherlock knew it was just a matter of days before he would return, because he’d never been able to deny himself something he wanted… and he wanted Lady Grey. He wanted her, and the person underneath, because they were one and the same. He would kiss those lips with or without lipstick and fall into those eyes with or without eyeshadow. All of that was inconsequential, because even with all those layers, Lady Grey gave so much of herself away. She obviously had a military history. There was that short, clipped way of speaking that superior officers often acquired, and though she tried to hide it, bits of the man underneath slipped through.

Sherlock made a note to ask her next time, because he couldn’t quite figure out which it was: Afghanistan or Iraq?


	2. Cell Block Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lady Grey take some time to become acquainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much to my wonderful betas [Crickette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette) and Morgan for helping me make this chapter readable. You're both amazing and your expertise has been invaluable. 
> 
> **For those of you waiting on the sequel to Into the Grey** , it is coming. I needed time to work on my writing, and while I'm writing the sequel, I will be doing major edits for ItG. Thank you all for your support!
> 
> As I've stated in chapter one, this story is already **completed** and will be updated every Friday.
> 
> Playlist:
> 
> [Bang Bang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHGeLhi0VOg) by Will.I.am  
> [Don't Tell Mama](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2pH9Yi0sV0) by Mary Carewe in "Cabaret"  
> [I Put A Spell On You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ua2k52n_Bvw) by Nina Simone

The party was in full swing the next night, and John was positively on fire.

The patrons spilled into the room in their dazzling dresses and dapper suits, rowdy and on the last leg of their sobriety. The music was loud and uptempo, the speakers pounding out Bang Bang as a few of the dancers popped bottles of champagne with the parties.

He’d done a number with Miss Vicky, doing back-up for her as she performed Don’t Tell Mama to a crowd of dreamy eyed soldiers on leave. At first, John felt that terrible sense of nostalgia as he watched them all get pissed and flirt with the showgirls, but then Miss Vicky pulled him onto the stage and all of that was tucked away for another time.

Miss Vicky was always a hit with the men, due in part to her mile long legs and coquettish smile. The wig she donned was red with luscious waves that fell to the middle of her bared back, and her cornflower blue eyes peeked coyly from beneath a neatly cut bang. Miss Vicky was a stunner and John’s favorite queen.

“My, my, my, will you look at that hot cuppa coming through the door? Five o’clock, honey, and don’t be obvious,” Miss Vicky breathed as they peeked through the curtains at the thickening, late night crowd. Sure enough, when John looked towards the door, Sherlock was walking confidently towards a table near the stage, alone this time.

“I’ve never seen him round, before. Think he’s here for the queens or the showgirls?” Miss Vicky asked.

John smiled. “Definitely here for the queens.”

Miss Vicky grinned, her rouge lips pulling back excitedly to reveal her dimples. “Well, let’s give the man a show he’ll never forget. Who knows, maybe he’ll get lucky and end up with me in his bed.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise, though his emotions flitted between jealousy and amusement. Then again, if Sherlock could be attracted to someone as ordinary as he, then why wouldn’t he find Miss Vicky and all of her eccentricity alluring?

Miss Vicky dragged her eyes away from an oblivious Sherlock. “What’s the next number, my darling?”

John turned to Miss Vicky and smirked. She was going to love this one. “Cell Block Tango.”

 

-

 

Sherlock hadn’t been planning to return so soon, but staying away was easier said than done. He didn’t sleep last night and only napped shortly during the day. When Mycroft turned up at the door, Sherlock was so preoccupied that he’d only made one reference to the pound his brother had gained since the last time he’d seen him. The case Lestrade sent him was embarrassingly simple, and yet it had taken Sherlock an hour to solve it. Blasphemous!

Now here he was, sat as close to the stage as he could get because any distance between himself and Lady Grey was too far.

The lights were low, which meant another set was about to begin, and Sherlock’s heart was thumping away in his chest for some godforsaken reason. Sherlock shoved his phone into his jacket pocket and crossed his legs, eyes intent on the curtains. They hitched once and then opened to reveal a sparsely lit stage and a row of jail bars, behind which, shadowy figures leant. 

“Pop.”

A spotlight appeared on a tall, blonde woman in little but rags. She grasped the bars, thrusting her body towards them.

“Six.”

This time, a long-legged, red-haired queen wearing much the same as the first slid up against the bars sensually, her torso a long, straight line.

“Squish.”

A dark-skinned woman - a professional dancer, by the look of the toned muscles of her thighs and arms - clutched the bars with both hands and stepped forward into the spotlight, unsmiling.

“Uh-uh.”

This woman placed her hands against the bars uncertainly, appearing nervous, unlike the rest.

“Cicero.”

Then, at last, Lady Grey.

She reclined nonchalantly against the bars with a lit cigarette in a holder pressed against her red-painted lips. She was dressed differently than the others, in a black, flapper fringed shirt that revealed only a sliver of her flat belly, but the lacy knickers were making another debut, along with the garter belts (honestly, would he ever get over his hang-up with them?) and fishnet stockings. Her hair wasn’t the wavy fashion of the night before, but a sleek blonde bob that framed her face flatteringly. Was it possible that Lady Grey could look any lovelier than she did at the moment?

“Lipschitz.”

The last light illuminated a woman with smooth, cream-coloured skin and sooty, corkscrew curls that drifted past her straight shoulders.

All of these women were striking beyond a doubt, but only one could hold him captive in a way nothing and no one else ever could.

A masculine voice began to speak. “And now, the six merry murderesses of the Cook County Jail, and their rendition of... the Cell Block Tango.”

Again, the words were repeated in that same sobre cadence until the music began to speed up, and the women were pressing themselves against the bars, angry and beautifully scornful. Then at last, the tango began:

“Pop!”

“Six!”

“Squish!”

“Uh-uh!”

“Cicero!”

“Lipschitz!”

Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of Lady Grey; the way her hips moved behind those bars was sinful, and under the spotlight, she came alive. She stomped against the ground with the bass, her legs spread seductively as she held the bar with one hand and her cigarette holder in the other. Lady Grey slid down the bars and back up, before she thrust a hand through the bars: “I bet you, you would have done the same!”

A man entered stage left and met the woman who yelled ‘Pop!' at the centre for a sensual dance, though the lyrics were anything but. Sherlock watched the story unravel, unable to look away for anything as the woman pretended to strangle the man with her red scarf.

The chorus began again, and the woman swayed in an embrace with her lover, before the spotlight on her began to dim. In the background, Lady Grey lifted a high-heeled foot against the rung of a bar, displaying her sculpted thigh and well-shaped calf to all and sundry. Sherlock shifted in his seat and turned back to the centre stage as the tall, red-haired woman emerged into the spotlight.

Another dancer came to stand next to her, placing his arms around her narrow waist with the obvious attempt to kiss her. His lips ghosted down her long, pale neck as she talked, before it all abruptly changed. “Single he told me. Single my ass!” She thrust the man to the ground, sat on top of him and leaned over, regardless of the view she afforded the audience of her overflowing bust.

Her blue eyes caught his briefly, and there was a tiny smile at the corner of her lips. She was stunning, undoubtedly, but even so, his eyes kept drifting back to Lady Grey behind the bars. He didn’t watch as the blonde and the red-headed woman began to tango around the stage with their respective partners.

No, instead, he thought of what he would do the next time he got Lady Grey alone. He’d been foolish not to kiss her the night before. Just a taste of her lips would have been divine.

The dark-skinned woman stepped forward, her long, graceful brown legs striding towards the man waiting for her in the spotlight. It was a brief scene, but the intensity of it was just as enthralling as the others. They gravitated around one another, as if they were sizing one another up before a fight, and that was exactly what the choreography was. The woman and her partner pulled apart until they were only connected by the red scarf, before she wove her long leg around it and harshly pulled him in. It was stylistically done, and again, Sherlock wondered how it was that he missed a place like this right in the centre of London.

The fourth woman’s verse was entirely in Hungarian, and Sherlock was certain that he was the only who actually knew what she was saying. He’d made it one of his quest in life to learn every foreign language he could manage, and it served him well. Even in unexpected situations such as the one he was currently in.

This woman held her lover differently, embraced him with love and not scorn, and her voice rang out with the effect of conveying her worry and fear, and also her sadness that her husband was dead.

“What am I doing here? They say my famous lover held down my husband while I chopped off his head. But it isn’t true; I am innocent.”

Her partner spun her deftly around the stage until she curled her arms around his neck, her back pressed against his chest. When she pulled away, she released a white scarf from his collar. Innocent.

Then, the women were fading to the shadows as Lady Grey prowled forward, staring out into the audience with her compelling stare and immediately pulling the audience in as her lips moved with the words. She flicked her cigarette and placed herself before her partner, demanding his absolute attention. She threw her arms around the man’s neck and wrapped her calf around his waist until she leant against him for support.

“ Now, for the last number in our act, we did 20 acrobatic tricks. One, two, three, four, five...splits, spread eagles, back flips, flip flops, one right after the other.” She continued in a conversational tone until she reached the climax, and out of the side of his eye, Sherlock could see a few lean forward in their seats in anticipation of her next moment, just as he was.

“I come back, open the door, and there's Veronica and Charlie doing Number Seventeen: The spread eagle!”

On the pop, Lady Grey lifted her knee and kicked the man in the bollocks, and down he went, while she held the red scarf in her hand triumphantly. She smiled sweetly and recited the excuse without skipping a word on the recording, playing the flustered, forgetful character, before she changed to a guiltless murderer in a faultless transition. She was absolutely perfect.

Lady Grey owned every woman on the stage as she moved in the centre, gliding through the steps with no effort. With each hitch up of her knees, the muscles beneath the skin of her thighs flexed enticingly.

At last, they all turned to the last woman, who ran smoothly through her part, before ending in a climactic : “I guess you can say we broke up because of artistic differences. He saw himself as alive and I saw him dead.” Then, she wove her scarf around his neck and jerked.

The rest of the set went by without a snag and ended with a standing ovation. When he stood to clap, Lady Grey caught his eye and sent him a wink.

Sherlock would have her by the end of the night.

 

-

 

God, John would have him by the end of the night.

It had been impossible not to notice the way Sherlock stared as he danced on the stage. John might even have done some of the moves just to see that eyebrow inch up a little further. The man could watch him all night and John wouldn’t have a problem with it, so long as it ended with Sherlock in his bed.

As he winked, John could see Miss Vicky glance at him in his peripheral vision, then shift back to Sherlock, before a slow smile pushed out her dimples again.

When the curtains closed after their final bow, Miss Vicky was well on her way to hounding him.

“You  _ know  _ him, don’t you, you little tease,” she asked, her bright blue eyes lit up in excitement. “Goodness, me! You haven’t even slept with him yet, have you?  _ How?! _ ”

John chuckled. “We met last night. Melody’s husband, Michael Stamford introduced us. He enjoyed my show,” he confessed, resisting the urge to preen like a tosser.

Miss Vicky gasped as if she were insulted by the very notion that John wouldn’t jump into bed with a man he’d barely even known for twenty-four hours. “How does Michael Stamford know men like  _ that _ ?”

John shrugged, pushing through the crowd in the hallway leading towards his dressing room, Miss Vicky right at his heels. “He said they met at Bart’s.”

John made it to his room, intent on going in alone, at least for a moment of peace. Miss Vicky frowned at him, her tall form leaning over him as she used the full force of her formidable glare to pin him in place.

“Look, nothing happened, but I can’t say that that will be true for long. I’m sure he’ll turn up here again. There. Happy?”

Miss Vicky straightened her back and crossed her freckled arms over her chest. “Hm, I won’t be satisfied until I hear the answer I want to hear, which is that you let him pull down those knickers and taste that lovely pri-”

“Thank you, Miss Vicky, for your concern. Now, get out. I’m tired,” John sighed, holding the door open for her.

Miss Vicky pouted and stuck her tongue out at him before retreating. “Diva,” she threw over her shoulder, and then disappeared into the crowd.

Ten minutes of rest was all he needed. Just ten.

John stumbled over to his couch and crashed face down onto it, making sure to turn his cheek so he didn’t smear lipstick everywhere. He kicked off his shoes and curled up with his back facing the door. Ten minutes. Irene wouldn’t miss him.

An indeterminate amount of time later, John woke to a knock on the door. Flustered and panicked, he sat up, looking around. God, had he actually taken a nap? Irene would be infuriated with him! And he still had on his costume from the first set. What the fuck was he thinking?

“Uh, give me a mo’!” He called, and scrambled for his robe. “Christ on a bloody cracker! Get your shit together, Watson!” He whispered furiously to himself as he strode to the door. He was already explaining himself before Irene could get a word in.

“Fucking Christ, Irene, I’m sorry. I- oh  _ fuck _ .” He almost shut the door out of pure humiliation when he saw who was standing on the other side. “Sorry, sorry, I thought you were my boss.”

John stood back so that Sherlock could pass, and stuck his head out the door, peering around. The hall was conveniently empty and John could hear music in the grand room. He closed the door and turned to Sherlock.

“I gathered,” the man replied, holding out a steaming cup to John. “I thought you might like something other than roses.”

Surprised, John raised his brows in silent question. Sherlock only returned a blank, but pleasant smirk. “How’d you guess about the roses?” He asked, taking the cup cautiously, his fingers passing lightly over Sherlock’s. Black tea and a splash of milk just the way he liked it. One sip confirmed the light dash of sugar.

Sherlock shrugged and peered around, circling the room leisurely before he stopped at the vanity. “You’re very expressive. I could look at you and know every thought that crosses your mind. When a gentleman gave you flowers last night, you didn’t like them. Your nostrils flared and the skin around your eyes grew tight when you smiled, but you must have told yourself that a Lady would accept them without complaint.” Sherlock’s eyes found his in the mirror, pale and smouldering. He held up a picture. “This is you,” he stated, his eyes dropping back to the picture, as if his eyes were unwittingly drawn to it.

John nodded and came to stand beside Sherlock, gently plucking the photo from his fingers. John and Irene after his first performance, holding up matching pints at some bar they’d all packed into. He was a bit younger then, but save for a few new wrinkles, John would like to think he was the same person in the picture.

“It was my first time dressing as Lady Grey,” he admitted, running a finger affectionately over the glossy photograph. “The night hadn’t been perfect, but it was enough for people to remember my name.”

When he looked up, Sherlock was staring down at him, his lips slightly parted, and John had the insane urge to run his tongue across them. “I’m not sure how you could ever be forgotten, Lady Grey,” Sherlock said softly, his eyes flicking down to John’s lips. John cleared his throat and placed the photo back on the vanity.

Sherlock was closer now. John had no idea when it happened, when either of them moved, because his feet felt rooted in place. “John,” he said, failing to pitch his voice to Lady Grey’s. It was his, it was him, and Sherlock would have to take it in whatever way he chose, because John didn't want to have to pretend with him. He was nervous, though, and too afraid that Sherlock would see that he wasn't like Lady Grey and walk away.

Sherlock paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as they zeroed in on his bobbing throat. “John,” he breathed. “Can I-,” but John was already nodding his assent, because he couldn’t wait any longer. Then, Sherlock’s tall figure was blocking out everything else and his lips were pressing insistently against John’s.

Sherlock chased him back to the wall, his large hands pushing back the robe to settle on John's hips. One of them sighed, and John’s legs were rapidly becoming useless with every swipe of Sherlock’s thumb over the skin of his midriff. John’s lipstick was probably getting all over Sherlock’s mouth and chin, but neither of them spared it a thought as the man’s tongue penetrated his lips with ease.

Sherlock’s hands were just beginning to explore when John shoved him away, both of them trying to catch their breaths. “I just need to lock- lock the door,” John said, and would have turned to make his way, if it weren’t for the gentle grip on his wrist.

“I’ve got it,” Sherlock said, then pointedly cast his eyes towards the couch and back to John. He didn’t have to say anymore for John to get the hint. He flashed a coy smile and walked away, sliding the robe down his shoulders and onto the floor.

Sherlock locked the door and turned on his heels. He slid his jacket off and let it rest on the vanity as he passed. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, watching John steadily as he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. The sight of him sent shivers down John’s spine and raised the hair on his neck, every part of him attuned to the man approaching him with the gleam of wicked intent in his eyes. John lowered himself to sit on the couch as Sherlock drew closer, until he was forced to tilt his head back to see the man’s face. He sat back without breaking their connection, and spread his legs.

Every bit of Sherlock’s polite veneer slipped away to reveal something heady and primal, and  _ so fucking beautiful  _ as the man placed one knee on the couch between his legs, then another until John was forced to lift his legs to make room. Sherlock’s were folded beneath him, and he gripped the back of John’s thighs and pulled him forward so that their erections were touching beneath layers of fabric.

Sherlock leaned down and captured his lips in a filthy kiss. After a minute, John groaned, turning his head to the side to breathe before he came in his knickers. The vanity that stretched the length of the wall showed their positions so vividly, until the realization of exactly what he was doing with Sherlock was unavoidable. His fishnet covered legs and gartered thighs were wrapped tight around Sherlock’s narrow waist, and his jaw was slack with ecstasy. The red lipstick was smeared unflattering over his lips and on his cheek and his mascara was beginning to smudge, so why was Sherlock still staring at him as if he were the most attractive person he’d ever laid eyes on?

John could see the line of Sherlock’s jaw as he dipped down to bite the underside of John’s chin. His fingers were doing impossible things, touching John in ways that made his nerves alight and his skin tingle. John would have scratches on his thighs from Sherlock’s blunt fingernails, and he would enjoy every minute of tracing them later.

Sherlock pulled back, caressing John’s legs with reverent touches. He tilted his curly head and kept his eyes trained on John’s as he ran a finger down the bulge in John’s knickers. “Walking round like this,” Sherlock murmured, tilting his chin up the slightest bit as John pushed his hips up. “It’s indecent.”

John spread his legs a little wider for Sherlock to fit closer against him, and crossed his ankles on the small of Sherlock’s back. “Who said anything about decent?” John brushed his hand across his stomach and down into his knickers, under the cup and over his hardened cock. “Decent is  _ boring. _ ”

Sherlock knocked his hand away abruptly and shoved his own inside instead, pulling out his erection with undue haste. The other hand braced against the back of the couch as he drew his hand up and down John’s cock twice before dropping a kiss on John’s lips and pulling away completely to stand.

John immediately missed the warmth of Sherlock’s body and collapsed sideways to lay on the couch as the man did… whatever. He turned onto his back, his legs falling open wantonly. Sherlock was searching his vanity. “Vaseline is in the bottom drawer on the left.”

Sherlock retrieved it with a triumphant, “Ah-ha!”, then focused all of that singular attention on John again.

The man’s pale eyes absorbed all the light in the room until they appeared to be shifting colours as he moved. For a moment, his eyes darkened as they traversed possessively over John's splayed form. “You don’t do this often.” John couldn’t tell if Sherlock was asking or stating what he assumed, but he answered anyway.

“No, not for a few years, at least.” It was true. He’d been lonely, but it was better than feeling like he owed something to someone, or being forced to cut his hours at the cabaret because his partner didn’t like that his work was what he lived for. “Certainly never here, where I work.”

Sherlock knelt before him, setting the vaseline aside. He bent, and placed a kiss against John’s thigh. A single finger played along the line of his knickers where there was a slight gap between his skin and the lace. “Have you ever had a tongue inside you, John?”

John’s breath hitched as he fully processed what Sherlock was asking him, and then he felt a hot bolt of desire strike between his belly and his cock. Sherlock continued without waiting for John to respond.

He leaned forward to ghost his lips across John’s, then retreated down to his throat, where his mouth settled comfortably. “You see, I’ve been watching you strut round in these,” Sherlock ran a hand up the line of the garter and snapped it. John delighted in the slight sting of it striking his skin. “...all day, and all I can think about is pushing you over a table and pulling those little knickers aside.”

John drew in a strangled gasp as Sherlock spoke the words into his skin.

“The way you dance on the stage, I wondered how you’d look in my bed, moving those hips the way you do.”

The fingers dancing at the hem of John’s knickers pushed forward and into the gap, dipping to trace a cautious line up the split of his arse. Sherlock had pulled back to watch him, his eyes so hungry and demanding  as they burned right into his own. He refused to relent even when John’s eyes drifted shut as a hand cupped his swollen balls. John moaned, wishing that Sherlock would be there with him forever, whispering utterly filthy things into his ear with his fine, euphonious baritone.

The pad of Sherlock’s finger was just pressing against John’s arsehole when there was a knock at the door.

“Ignore it,” Sherlock ordered, and John was hard-pressed to disobey.

Another knock.

“John, are you in there? Why is the door locked?” Irene. The handle jiggled. “John, if you don’t come to the door, I’ll use my executive rights and unlock the door myself with this  _ lovely  _ spare set of keys!” A rattle of keys, and John was pushing Sherlock away.

He rolled his eyes and grabbed his robe off the floor on the way to the door, shoving his arms through it in aggravation. “What?” John snapped as he eased the door open, affording only a limited view of the room. At the state of him, Irene released a horrified gasp.

“Your face, John, are you alright? You look like you’ve been - I don’t know - rolling around in blankets or something.” Irene wrinkled her aristocratic little nose at him, and John fought with everything he had not to show how furious he was with her interruption. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

“No, Irene, I’m fine-”

“Poppycock, John, you look horrendous.” Irene shoved past him only to be greeted by Sherlock’s put-out frown and the man grabbing his jacket from the vanity. He was still deliciously rumpled, and there was lipstick smeared over his lips as well, but somehow, he was still frustratingly gorgeous. “Oh,  _ well _ , what have we here? I didn’t interrupt, did I?”

Sherlock narrowed his sharp eyes and tensed his jaw as if he were biting down on his words, instead choosing wisely not to rise to Irene’s bait.

John sighed and folded his arms over his chest.

Irene scowled, her eyes lingering disapprovingly on the obvious bulge beneath his knickers. “Ugh, and look at that costume. It’s ruined!”

“ _ You’re _ a drama queen, Irene. Could you give us a moment?”

Irene looked between them, and Sherlock stared back at her intrepidly. Finally she rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. “For heaven’s sake, fine! Five minutes, John, then we’ll be having a chat.”

John nodded and Irene walked out of the room, shutting the door behind herself.

Shaking his head, he turned back to Sherlock, who was observing him as he leaned against the vanity with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m sorry.” John wished he had the stupid wig off of his head so that he could run his fingers through his hair.

Sherlock straightened up from his slump and prowled towards John, crowding him against the wall. With a steady hand— far steadier than John’s gelatinous knees—Sherlock tilted his chin up. “Another time perhaps,” he said softly, before bending close to lay a sweet, lingering kiss on John’s lips. “I wouldn’t dare pass up an opportunity to see you like this again, though a more ideal location would be preferred.”

John stood on his toes and planted another kiss on Sherlock’s lips, this one longer than before, and he didn’t move away immediately. Sherlock’s hand was on his waist again, carefully pulling him closer, until they were chest-to-chest. “Oh? And what do you consider an ideal location?”

Sherlock smirked. “Somewhere comfortable, to begin with.”

John laughed. “You berk, my couch is comfortable enough.”

“Of course, how could I ever think otherwise. However, the amount of space on your couch is insufficient for the things I want to do to you.” Then, he pressed against the side of John’s cheek with his proud, roman nose, causing him to shudder in expectation. Those large hands drew him close, and John drowned in euphoria as Sherlock whispered, “Earlier tonight, I believe you mentioned something about number seventeen.”

John understood the reference immediately, from the Cell Block Tango routine. Number seventeen: Spread eagle. He breathed in shakily as Sherlock let him go with one last chaste, but sensual press of lips to his ear.

“Goodnight, John,” he said, and then he was gone as if he’d never been there.

John walked unsteadily to his vanity and wilted onto the bench. Irene was right. He looked dreadful, and for some reason, that excited Sherlock. John’s reflection appeared wrecked and mussed, and he would even go so far as to say skanky. He reached for a wet towelette and carefully wiped away the smudged make-up, until he began to resemble something human again.

“You’re quite finished for the night, I gather,” Irene said from the door. John sighed and turned to his friend, expecting her to be angry, but instead, a secretive smile lit her delicate features. “Pity. By the look of you, it would have made for an impressive story.”

John rolled his eyes and returned to his make-up. “Could have been something, if you hadn't interrupted.” He picked up his face powder and smoothed it on his cheeks, watching the wrinkles fade under the layer of pale powder.

Irene sat on the bench next to him, flashing him a stern look in the mirror. “You haven't been with anyone in years. Don't you think this is all going a bit fast?”

John paused, meeting her green eyes in the glass. “Jesus, Irene, it’s just sex! We’re not declaring our undying love for one another.”

“Well, with the way he looks at you, I'd say he wasn't far off,” Irene murmured, watching John apply a shell pink colour to his eyelids. He was going for the blushing virgin look paired with the Marilyn Monroe wig. “And the way you look at him…”

Irene was like a sodding dog with a bone; the woman could never let things go. John loved her, but he disliked that quality in her, at times. There were some things he didn't want to talk about neither with her, or anyone else.

“John.” Irene stayed him with a hand over his, until he met her eyes. “You've closed yourself off to everyone who has wanted to pursue you in the years that we’ve known one another. Maybe it's time to let that go,” she said, gripping John's fingers with her smaller ones. “I can see that he adores you. It's not love; you haven't had nearly enough time for that and I don't believe in that love at first sight drivel… but, it could be, one day.”

John swallowed, staring down at their joined hands. “You don't know that.”

Irene smiled gamely. “You're right, I don't, but I do know that you can be a stand-offish wanker when you want to be. As your friend, I'm warning you not to cock this up.”

John gave her a tentative grin. “Could we not mention the word ‘cock’, right now? As I recall,  _ you _ just deprived me of one.”

Irene slapped his shoulder playfully, her tinkling laughter filling the room. “Oh, shush, you slutty tit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates, excerpts and all things Sherlockian. Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Con-crit and feedback are always welcome.


	3. Sparkling Diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Grey gives a dazzling performance, and Sherlock makes a wager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back with the third chapter of this little ditty. I hope you all enjoyed the last. Once again, thank you to my lovely betas [Crickette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette) and Morgan. You two are miracle workers and absolutely amazing. Go check out Crickette's fic [The Unlikely Math Geek of 221B](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235615). I promise you, it is hot and you will not be disappointed. 
> 
> Playlist:
> 
> [Sparkling Diamonds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pE6TETVF7yE) by Nicole Kidman from the film Moulin Rouge

John rolled over in his bed and thanked God that the first week of the grand opening was done and over with, and that the world was right again. Well, as much as it could be with the absence of one mysterious man. After that night in his dressing room, John had been expecting to see Sherlock again very soon, but he hadn’t turned up in days, and now John was fretting that he’d scared him off. 

Bugger. That would have been some explosive sex.

John turned his face into his pillow and groaned. It was Saturday night, and Irene had been planning an extravaganza. Which meant a show. Which also meant the works. Everyone in the drag community knew that Irene knew how to entertain. And when she did, she brought out the acrobats, the sparklers, and the pounds of glitter that John would be washing out of unusual places by the end of the night.

They’d been rehearsing for months, even when they didn’t have all of the proper equipment for Irene’s vision. Even so, she drilled John on every routine until he threw his hands up in exasperation and demanded that she let him go home and sleep. Reluctantly, she’d done so, but not without a few clipped orders that he be there at noon, and on time, as they’d be rehearsing the aero-routines.

Ugh, John hated sets that actually involved his feet leaving the ground, but what the madame wanted, the madame got.

As John contemplated whether it would be beneficial or not to actually check the time, his mobile buzzed on his nightstand. John groaned, sure that it would be Irene blowing up his phone, as per usual, but when he picked it up and checked the screen, it was an unknown number. The dial code was for Westminster.

Curious, John typed in the passcode and pulled up his text messages. The preview didn’t offer much information, just a simple instruction:  **Save this number. - SH** .

John’s brow furrowed as he read the text. Had he  gotten pissed and given his number to someone at the cabaret? But no, he’d been regretfully sober every night the past week. Besides, the only man he would have thought to give his number to hadn’t made an appearance at the Looking Glass in days.

**Who is this?** After a brief hesitation, John hit send. He lay back on the bed with the phone on his chest, already quite sure that he knew who it was, but suspicious of how the man had gotten hold of his phone number. It couldn’t have been Irene. She was fiercely protective of the privacy of her employees, which had saved her multiple times from possible lawsuits, and generally because there was always the potential for those odd sorts to get ahold of the wrong information. There was also no way it could have been Michael Stamford. John wasn’t chummy with the man, had only spoken to him in passing when he would visit Melody at the club.

The phone on his chest vibrated. John picked it up, unlocking it much quicker than he would ever admit to doing, his heart thumping in anticipation.

**Sherlock Holmes. - SH**

Succinct. Yup, there was no mistaking who was on the other end, now. John tried to stamp down his excitement and the warmth burrowing in his chest like a warm cuppa after a long day, but the feeling spread throughout his body with little resistance on his part. He hadn’t run Sherlock away, as he’d assumed, and once again he was seeking John out. It still surprised him that a man like Sherlock Holmes wanted him.

Because he couldn’t help his curiosity, he replied:  **Right. How did you get my number?**

John regretted it as soon as he’d sent the text. He didn’t want Sherlock to think that he wasn’t interested. What if he thought that John didn’t want Sherlock to contact him? (Which would be wrong of course.) He sent another text.  **Not that I’m not happy to hear from you.**

Not two seconds after he sent the message, a new text buzzed in from Sherlock.

**Your phone was on the vanity in your dressing room. I sent myself a text from it while you were dealing with Irene. - SH**

Did he? John tried to think back to that moment. When he’d turned around, Sherlock was standing by the vanity with his jacket. And his phone had a lock code!

**How? You need a code to unlock my screen.**

Frustrating man, John thought to himself, and huffed a laugh as he waited for Sherlock to write back. 

Sherlock’s response came back as precise and clipped as the others, but John could practically see the man rolling his eyes on the other end of the phone.  **2580\. Disappointingly easy, John. One would think a military man such as yourself would value your privacy much more than that. - SH**

That clever little  _ wanker _ ! Unfortunately, Sherlock was admittedly right. John hadn’t put much effort into coming up with a complicated passcode, instead he’d chosen a column of numbers on the keypad and left it at that, but even still - how was Sherlock to have guessed that? John had never even used the bloody thing around him.

His phone buzzed.  **Fingerprints, John. - SH**

Apparently, Sherlock could also read minds.

John wasn’t sure he even wanted to know how Sherlock learned of his military history. Actually, John thought that the man was rather brilliant, if a bit intrusive, in the way that he seemed to pull these facts out of thin air with no obvious prior clues.

**That’s brilliant. You’re brilliant,** John replied, smiling stupidly down at his phone. Would this man ever stop surprising him? He brought up the thread again.  **There’s going to be an extravaganza at the cabaret tonight.**

Really, was this his sad way of asking Sherlock whether he would be there tonight? John usually went for the straightforward approach, but the thought of flat-out telling Sherlock that he wanted to see him made John feel unusually bashful. Two messages came in, subsequently.

**You think so? - SH**

**Are you going to be performing? - SH**

John bit his lip, and internally shouted at his heart to calm the hell down, because there’s no way that Sherlock would go to the cabaret just to see him lip-sync some songs. Not that lip-syncing was all that it was. They put on a show, they were entertainers; it’s what they did, but he didn’t expect anyone to interrupt their lives just to watch him perform. 

_ “...he adores you,”  _ isn’t that what Irene had said when she’d found Sherlock in her dressing room?

**Of course. You’re brilliant, and you know it. Also, yes, I’m performing.**

John put the phone down and squeezed his eyes shut, wondering what he thought he was doing speaking with Sherlock like this. The cabaret was his life. In the years he’d been performing, he’d had flings here and there with men and women alike, even memorable ones, but they’d all been temporary. The lifestyle John lived wasn’t conducive to any kind of long-lasting relationship. As it was, he barely had time for himself. What good would it do to become involved in something he wouldn't be able to pay his attention to?

John felt his heart stutter in his chest as his phone vibrated, and then double up as he read Sherlock’s text.

**I’ll be there. - SH**

Then, a moment later.

**If I request a private audience with you, will you dance for me? - SH**

Sherlock wanted John to dance for him… and John was no fool, he knew the man didn’t particularly mean the Charleston. His stomach clenched and time seemed to slow as his thumbs hovered over the screen.

What was he meant to say? Of course he wanted to say yes, but would Irene even allow this?

Many times, John had been requested for private dances, but the men weren’t allowed to touch, ever, and only the most important of patrons earned that privilege. John never had a problem with doing it, as the private dances were usually for groups and pure entertainment. Nothing sordid ever happened. With Sherlock, there was only one way it could go.

John wouldn’t be able to  _ just  _ dance for him. He would ache to touch Sherlock, to sit on his lap and run his fingers through those lovely curls. No, if John danced for Sherlock, it would begin that way and end another. Yet, the thought of a slow seduction, of dressing as Lady Grey and reeling Sherlock in with a sensual performance was too good of an opportunity to pass up. It’s not as if they were playing coy with one another. Earlier that same week, Sherlock had been a moment away from putting his tongue in John’s arse. He knew that the man wanted him and vice versa, and if this was what Sherlock wanted, then John would only be all too happy to give it to him.

**If you want me to,** John finally sent back, then finally deigned to check the time.  **10.36** . He had to get up soon, or Irene would skin him alive.

But first -

**You know I do, John. - SH**

God, the man spoke the language of sexuality more fluently than anyone John had ever known. It didn’t come natural to John like it did with Lady Grey. Outside of his alter ego, John’s attempts at flirtation were mediocre at best, and most times he got by on natural charm alone. He sighed wistfully and threw the phone on the mattress, before tossing the cover aside.  Seemed he had more preparations to make for the evening.

 

-

 

“Sherlock, here’s the tea you asked for- oh. Are you leaving already?”

Sherlock glanced up from where he stood next to the microscope he’d been perched at for the last four hours, a text from John open on his screen. It was gone half eight and the first performance of the night at the cabaret was set to begin in an hour. He still needed to stop at Baker Street and change. He doubted that John would appreciate if he showed up at the Looking Glass wearing pig’s blood.

Sherlock tapped out a hurried response to John and tucked his phone away in his coat pocket. “Ah, Molly,” he said, accepting the warm styrofoam cup she held out with a nod. “Yes, now actually. Did you need something?”

Molly fidgeted where she stood, unsure what to do with her hands as she looked everywhere but directly at Sherlock. “Well, um - actually… well, I was wondering if you’d like to have a coffee with me sometime?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, confused. “We had coffee together this afternoon,” he stated, wondering if Molly was suffering from some mild form of short-term memory loss. Sherlock distinctly remembered Molly bringing him a coffee and sitting across from him at the lab table with her own.

Molly smiled uncertainly. “Well, yes, but - what I mean is, you know… like a date.” Her lips wavered nervously between a smile and a frown, until she seemed to steel herself and press her lips together confidently.

Ah, yes. Molly was infatuated with him for whatever reason, and no amount of unfriendliness on Sherlock’s part seemed to sway her. Tedious as her little crush was, it was an advantage when Sherlock needed to take home samples. No other pathologist in the morgue would allow him to take body parts home, and although Molly did so reluctantly, she never gave him grief for it.

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. He abhorred situations like these, complicated as they were. Molly’s help was crucial to his work and experiments; he needed to be in her good graces, but he held no attraction to her. Then, there was John, whom no one held a candle to. Whatever was happening those nights in the cabaret, it couldn’t be ignored. The attraction between them was unavoidable, indelible, and most surprising of all, Sherlock  _ wanted  _ to pursue it. That was… unprecedented.

So, Sherlock cleared his throat again and started over. “Molly, while I’m flattered by your interest, I am actually… seeing someone at the moment.” It wasn’t the entire truth, but it wouldn’t hurt her not to know.

Molly’s eyes widened before she blushed profusely, her hand going to her lips briefly. “Oh! Oh, er- well, then, just forget I said anything. Silly me, I mean of course you would be,” she stammered. Molly was obviously mortified, but one glance at his watch told Sherlock he really didn’t have the time to stay and reassure her.

“Consider it forgotten, Molly,” he said, flashing her a tight smile before he skirted around her and made for the door.

“Goodnight,” he called back without waiting for a response as he swept out.

It was a warm night and moonlight coloured the drifting clouds an ashy grey. Thankfully it was dark enough outside that the blood on his shirt wouldn’t deter the cabbies from stopping for him. Sherlock buttoned his coat for added security and reached out his arm for cab. As usual, no more than two vacant cabs passed before one pulled over, and Sherlock slid into the back seat and relayed his address to the driver.

Fifteen minutes, give or take, and they pulled up to the kerb. Sherlock paid the cabbie and let himself into 221, shouting a quick greeting at Mrs Hudson’s open door.

Before long, he was stepping out of the shower and towelling off his hair with one hand and texting John with the other. The messages were coming in slower now than they’d been before. It was obvious that John didn’t text often and it was Sherlock’s preferable means of communication, but he found he liked John’s presence and the sound of his voice more than simple words on a screen.

The anticipation of the night and what was in store was gradually building, until Sherlock had to force himself to contain it before he accidentally stumbled down the stairs and snapped his neck in his haste to get to the cabaret.

He’d chosen his best tailored suit, the one that often received lingering looks. Although Sherlock wasn’t the best source when it came to analyzing human emotions, he knew the ins and outs of attraction, and he was no blushing virgin when it came to sex. John was not his first spontaneous fling, but he was the most unusual one. And he was, by far, one of the more extraordinary individuals he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Sherlock didn’t seek out sex the way that others did, and it didn’t excite him when he knew that intercourse was imminent. With John, though, not only did the thought arouse him, but he thought he might go to any lengths John wished him to just to have him.

The cab ride was mercifully short, and a short trip later, the car was easing out of traffic and beside the crowded pavement of the cabaret. Inside, the foyer was decorated with gaudy silks and the twinkling light of the chandelier reflected brightly against the fabric, granting the room a cheerful look. Men and women were clustered in groups, moving from one to another with ease as they sipped from glistening flutes of champagne. The grand room doors were open, and Sherlock could see that there was already a large crowd gathered there.

As he pressed his way inside the room, he made a mental note of all the changes. The tables and chairs had been set up on either side of the stages, but a large space had been cleared in the middle of the room, and steps had been added to the bottom of the main stage. Multi-coloured aero-silks hung from the ceiling around the room and fairy lights blinked above the closed curtains. The patrons seemed not to know what to do with themselves. The tables were too far from the stage, but were available for seating. They were meant to be involved with the festivities, apparently. The older attendees seemed less than excited with the new arrangements, but others appeared to know what was coming as they spoke in enthusiastic undertones.

Sherlock blended into the crowd and waited for the show to begin.

 

-

 

The grand room light went out, before the gradual glow of a red light grew brighter from the ceiling in the the centre of the room. Someone gasped as a figure appeared, radiant in her ruby bustier and red-feathered tail. The golden glitter on her red garter belts and stockings reflected the light mosaically, and the shine of her red heels caught the spotlight. Silk cerise gloves held tightly onto the ropes on either side of her as she appeared to float. Vermillion lips, blonde curls and a red top hat to finish her look. Lady Grey was fabulous.

As she was lowered on her swing, wispy white clouds of fog surrounded her, like a goddess descending.

Her lips parted with the words, gleaming white teeth flashing as she enunciated the lyrics of her song.

“The French are glad to die for love… They delight in fighting duals, but I prefer a man who lives and gives expensive... jewels!"

The velvet curtains of the stage slid apart to reveal the shadowy figures of dancers posed behind glowing blue screens. Lady Grey zipped around the room on her chariot, her head thrown back in euphoria. The lyrics started up again as she was lowered to the stage. She kicked her leg forward and strode across the stage and down the steps, where a man held his hand out to help her down.

“A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,” she ripped her hand away, and swirled away to fall into a dancer’s awaiting arms. They leant and before he’d finished tipping her back on her feet, she spun to pull an unsuspecting patron over by his tie as she walked backwards. “But diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

Lady Grey released the man and the showgirls circled her briefly, spinning, before they disbanded into a line to do their routine. Up above them, some acrobats tangled around their silks gracefully, while others swung expertly across the room, crisscrossing one another.

Lady Grey sashayed back towards the stage, and twirled, before she placed a foot on the step. “A kiss may be grand, but it won't pay the rental on your humble  _ flat _ !” She ran up two more steps and turned back to the crowd, curling her fingers into a paw. “or help you feed your— _ rawr— _ pussy cat!”

She ran up to the stage where she met with more showgirls. Linking arms, they hitched up their knees, then legs. “Men grow cold as girls grow old, and we all lose our charms in the end.” She kicked her leg away and caught a red-feathered boa thrown her way. Lady Grey danced around with it as she placed it around her neck. Behind her, the dancers behind the blue screens danced  seductively. “But square-cut or pear-shaped, these rocks don't lose their shape.”

She skipped to the swing waiting for her. “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend!” The swing pulled her off the stage and on another circuit around the room. Just over the crowd, she swung, flinging her hand to the left where a sprinkle of confetti dropped from the ceiling on cue. “Tiffany’s!”

Lady Grey leant back in the swing, her head thrown back carelessly as she was carried to the other side of the room, the crowd going crazy on the ground. She flung her hand to the right. “Cartier!”

The beat changed to a pop-like rhythm as she landed on the stage and threw the boa to the crowd. Someone caught it and yelled, “I love you, Lady Grey!”

Lady Grey caught the cane from offstage and two dancers came to stand to her left and two to her right. In synchronicity, they swaggered forward, Lady Grey leaning on her cane, while the other held the tip of her top hat down over her eye. “Cause we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.”

She tossed the cane back to someone offstage and a group of male dancers waited on the other side of the stage. She started towards them, and did a pirouette. “Come and get me, boys!” She took two steps forward, then hands swept her up, lifting Lady Grey. As if she weighed nothing, the men tossed her into the air, catching her as she fell face up. “Ah!”

They set her on her feet, and she skipped to the stair, clicking her heels before she stepped down. More male dancers stood on either side of the steps, holding her hands as she danced down them effortlessly. Lady Grey grabbed one of the dancer’s ties, pulling him forward pleadingly, her red lips parting in a coy grin. “Black star!” Then on the other side her, she wove her hand into another man’s tie. “Ross Cole!” Lady Grey pushed them away in disgust before stomping down the stairs. “Talk to me, Harry Zilder, tell me all about it!” She turned and fell back, expecting the men to catch her. Over the palms of their hands, Lady Grey stretched her arms over her head and arched her back.

“There may come a time when a lass needs a lawyer.” The hands carried her through the crowd, and they spun her as the showgirls loosely circled her, undulating their arms. “But diamonds are a girl’s best friend!”

She sat up and the men transferred her to their shoulders. “There may come a time when a hard-boiled employer thinks you're… awful nice!”

Lady Grey threw her head back, playing flustered as she fanned herself with her hand. “Ah!” She drew up, crossing her legs and slashed hand across her neck seriously. “But get that ice or else no dice!”

The men let her down as the showgirls linked arms and kicked into the air. From somewhere in the room, someone threw a rose at her and she blew a kiss that way as she did a short tango around the open space with one of the dancers who’d carried her, letting him spin her around the circle. “He's your guy when stocks are high, but beware when they start to descend. Oooo...Diamonds are a girl's best. Diamonds are a girls best. Diamonds are a girls best friend!”

Lady Grey strode back up to the stairs and to the swing, the dancers following her to the stage, and then she was flying again, dazzling her audience as she held onto the ropes and kicked her feet. She pulled one hand away and sang down to the crowd. “Cause that's when those louses go back to their spouses!” She leaned back in her swing, keeping one leg bent and the other straight out so that the crowd could see her face.

Beside her, the acrobats flew and the dancers on the stage spun with their partners enthusiastically.

“Diamonds…”

Lady Grey threw her head back.

“—are a…” She lifted a brow, a smile beginning at the corner of her vermillion lips.

“Girl's... best…”

“...Friend!” She threw out her arm, giving the audience a jazz hand as confetti fell from the ceiling and the crowd applauded loudly. Abruptly, the lights went out.

 

-

 

When John finally made it past the hordes of dancers and queens all congratulating him on his performance, some more excited than others, Irene was waiting for him at the entrance of the hall to his dressing room. Her eyes were red-rimmed and it was evident that she’d been crying. John didn’t know whether to dread what would happen next or resolve himself to the fact that he was screwed for the next ten minutes while Irene cried on his shoulder. 

Irene spotted him as soon as he emerged from the crowd and launched herself at him, giggling as horror dawned on his face. She pulled back, only to smash their lips together for two and a half—yes, he counted—awkward seconds. “You were a star,” she hissed excitedly. “Marvellous! They  _ loved _ you!”

John couldn’t hold back his giggle as he thought about Irene bawling her eyes out during the performance. “Irene, it’s not as if we haven’t been planning this for years.”

“But that’s just it, John!” Irene released him momentarily, only to take his hand again and pull him towards the dressing room. “I’ve wanted to do that set since I was a  _ teenager _ , and to see you bring it to life the way you did...” She turned to him and placed her hands on his cheeks. “John, it was magnificent.”

It had been possibly the biggest performance of his career, and the only thing that John could think about was seeing Sherlock again. There was nothing like baring himself to a crowd, being at their mercy, and being awarded their adoration. He should feel more than this building anticipation!

Irene led him into the dressing room and sat him down at the vanity, taking the extra space beside him on the bench. “So, I assume you’re aware that  _ I’m  _ aware you have a private show in the parlour room?”

John wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t told her, but he knew that someone would if Sherlock actually did call and request private entertainment, specifically from Lady Grey. Anyone else could slip by, but Irene didn’t allow Lady Grey to perform for just anyone unless they’d been thoroughly vetted beforehand, due to her concern as a friend and as an employer. John nodded, hearing his phone buzz in his bag further down the vanity, barely able to resist lunging for it.

“And you don’t have a problem with it?”

John turned to her, shaking his head. “No, actually.”

Irene held him with her firm stare, before facing the mirror with a small smirk. “Fine, but no sex in my parlour. This isn’t a brothel, and I’d like to keep all of the goings-on in this establishment legal.” She raised a brow at him in the mirror that clearly conveyed her silent question:  _ Are we clear? _

John sighed and rolled his eyes, but bumped her fondly with his shoulder. “Should I expect you to be keeping an eye on things?”

“You bet your sweet arse.”

John snickered and pick up a wet towelette to wipe off his make-up. For Sherlock’s dance, he would need something more… provocative.

Irene seemed to be thinking, tapping away idly on her phone before she looked up. “Have you chosen your outfit, yet?”

John shook his head, rubbing the towel around his chin and cheeks.

“For this, you’re going to need a battle dress.”

John paused, meeting her mischevious eyes in the glass of the vanity. “Battle dress?” He enquired suspiciously.

Irene smiled, her eyes gleaming in a way that made John shift nervously. “I think I have the perfect thing.”

 

-

 

**A wager, if you will, Lady Grey. If I can make you beg for mercy, you’ll allow me to take you to dinner next week. - SH**

John’s breath hitched as he read the text from Sherlock, feeling his cock twitch in his knickers. God, twenty minutes until he was due in the parlour, and the urge to rub one out was damn near impossible to ignore.

John’s thumbs hovered momentarily over the screen before he finally replied.

**I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.**

His fingers were shaking as he placed the phone on the vanity and stood back to look at his costume.

He’d donned the severely cut blonde bob he’d worn during his Chicago routine, a pink bustier with maroon and gold trimming, and a mandarin collar. There was a cutout right above the bust, and John had contoured the bared skin of his chest with make-up to give the effect of cleavage; the shape of the bustier would do the rest. His knickers, garters and stockings were the same matte maroon as the trimming, and he wore a long organza tail to cover the pads under his garments, that also matched.

For the make-up, John had chosen a burgundy lipstick that made his thin lips look fuller, and a smoky-eye effect using black and red eyeshadow.

Battle dress, indeed. John didn’t think he’d ever looked this good in his life.

His stilettos clicked as he turned to check his phone one last time. He had one new message.

**Come home with me, and you will. - SH**

 

\--

John's hair and make-up for the end of this chapter.

.

 

John's costume for the last scene (Irene's battle dress),

minus the feather and hair. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for update info and all things Sherlockian! Thank you for reading. Your feedback and support would by much appreciated!


	4. Nasty Naughty Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Grey dances. Sherlock falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support you're showing me! I hope you enjoy this new chapter. Thanks once again to my betas [Crickette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette) and Morgan for making this chapter lovely and readable! You two give me life! 
> 
> Playlist:
> 
> [Nasty Naughty Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSlCVnSIgC8) by Christina Aguilera

**Confident, aren’t we, Mr Holmes?**

Sherlock read the last message he’d received from John nearly fifteen minutes before, wanting nothing more to forget this whole thing and whisk him away to Baker Street. He’d never been so in awe of a human before, but John was either something entirely supernatural or incredibly exceptional. John hadn’t just captured his attention with his performance, but drawn him in and didn’t allow him to look away for a second.

He’d been radiant, and Sherlock—well, Sherlock didn’t much know what he would have done if they were the only two in the room. Lady Grey had been in her element and to pull her out of that would have been a dire misstep on Sherlock’s part.

When the time came, the doorman showed him the way to the parlour where he was to wait for Lady Grey. It wasn’t that large of a room, but still grandly decorated with rich, red carpet and cream-coloured satin fabrics draped along the walls. There was a small stage and a table in the centre. The only props on the stage were a vintage microphone and a chair.

Sherlock sat in one of the chairs at the round table, and crossed his legs primly. He retrieved his phone from his coat pocket, unable to help himself in case he received a text from John. After a few minutes, a waiter entered to enquire about a beverage. Sherlock ordered two fingers of scotch, neat. He was back with Sherlock’s drink in only a few minutes, setting it on a small, square serviette before he bowed out.

As the door closed behind the waiter, the lights in the room dimmed, and the crackle of a record playing transferred over the speakers.

Suddenly a woman’s purring voice filled the room. “Come here, big boy.”

A supple, stockinged leg appeared from offstage, leading up to a garter-lined thigh. Then, Lady Grey was spinning from behind the wall, until her back was pressed against it. One finger trailed from her pretty maroon lips to trail down her neck as the woman on the record moaned erotically. She melted down with the movement, her thighs spreading as her arse nearly touched the ground.

Sherlock’s back straightened as he watched her, his cock beginning to stir. Lady Grey was beautiful like this, entirely focused on him after performing for a crowd of hundreds, and Sherlock felt a sweep of possessiveness so strong he nearly stood and approached her.

Lady Grey slid herself back up the wall and circled the chair in the middle of the stage. “You’ve been a bad, bad boy. I’m gonna take my time, so enjoy.” She swung her right leg over the chair and sank down slowly, holding his eyes with her dark blue ones as she ran her hands down her inner thighs in a coquettish manner. “There’s no need to feel no shame…” Lady Grey leant back and placed her hands behind her on the seat, tipping her head backwards as her body undulated upwards. “Relax and sip upon my champagne.”

“Cause I’m gonna give you a little taste,” she thrust her hips, and Sherlock wanted to fuck her where she sat. “Of the sugar below my waist, you nasty boy.”

Lady Grey stood and kicked away the chair, then turned so that Sherlock had a view of her arse, just barely visible under the organza, taunting him as she raised her arms to fold over her head and rolled her hips sumptuously. Sherlock spread his legs slightly to alleviate the pressure building inside his trousers as Lady Grey looked over her shoulder at him with a smug little smirk. Later, when he had her alone, he’d make sure that she understood everything she was making him feel, every affliction that he suffered because of her.

“I’ll give you some ooh-la-la. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

Yes, he thought, as Lady Grey leaned forward to touch the ground, and then steadily, steadily, her stance grew wider and she began to sink. Finally, she was seated in a split, and Sherlock was unable to stop his heart from thumping madly in his chest, because she had to be the most amazing thing he’d ever encountered. Never before had he desired someone like this. This felt wild and untameable. If he couldn’t have her tonight, then he wouldn’t be able to think tomorrow, and he’d be useless if Lestrade came round with a case. It was all a chain reaction. If Lady Grey said no, then all those pieces would fall and Sherlock would be undeniably  _ wrecked _ .

“I got you breaking into a sweat. Got you hot, bothered, and wet you nasty  _ boy _ .” Lady Grey slid up to her knees and stretched forward like a feline, presenting herself to Sherlock so recklessly, when he was already fighting to stay politely seated. “Nasty, naughty boy.”

The music revved up, and Lady Grey rolled over onto her bum, her legs still parted lasciviously. She rolled her hips in a wave-like motion, thrusting, and revealed her throat and squared jaw to him. “Oh baby for all it's worth, I swear I'll be the first to blow—” Thrust. “—your” Thrust. “—mind.”

Another undulation of her torso, and she was rolling to her hands and knees to stand gracefully. In a carelessly prurient manner, Lady Grey ran her hands down her body, her lips moving through the words without much thought. “Now if you're ready, come and get me. I'll give you that hot, sweet, sexy loving.”

Sherlock had all but forgotten about his scotch in the face of her seduction, but now, his mouth was dry and gritty as Lady Grey walked down the stairs. There were only a few metres of space between them, and Sherlock ached to touch her in the most wicked of ways, but she wasn’t quite done, and he could honestly say that it was the most exquisite form of torture he’d ever been exposed to.

“Hush now, don't say a word. I'm gonna give you what you deserve.” She strolled to where Sherlock sat, and grabbed a chair, swivelling it so that the back faced forward. She didn’t sit, but circled it, keeping their eyes locked. Sherlock wasn’t going to let her look away, not if he could help it. He wanted her to know what she was doing to him.

“Now you better give me a little taste. Put your icing on my cake, you nasty boy.” As the music picked up again, she swung around to clutch the back of the chair and bent over, swaying her arse sadistically.

“Oh no, oh there I go again. I need a spanking, 'cause I've—” Sway. “—been—” Sway. “—bad.” Sherlock’s erection pressed insistently against his trousers. Watching Lady Grey dance so flagrantly sexual, so shamelessly was nearly too much. Not only was his mind overloading with all the possible positions he could take her in, but data was spilling into his mind palace at an alarming rate. Rooms were filling up that he hadn’t even known he had, and Sherlock was helpless to stop it. “So let my body do the talkin'. I'll slip you that hot, sweet, sexy loving.”

Lady Grey straightened and turned the chair, dropping into it as the song reached a peak. Once again, she spread her legs and Sherlock got a glimpse of her obvious erection through her knickers. She wasn’t tucked.

Sherlock’s breath hitched at the sight, and flicked his eyes up to meet hers from beneath the line of his brows. “Ohh ha! Come on daddy!” Lady Grey slid a hand down her stomach, over her covered cock, and squeezed, biting her lip as she matched his stare. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah oh, come on, sugar.”

The woman on the track groaned, and Sherlock was completely enraptured as Lady Grey’s expression seemed to falter for a moment, breaking her character as vixen as she appeared to pant a little. Sherlock hoped that he was affecting her as much as she was him.

“I got you breaking into a sweat. Got you hot, bothered, and wet, you nasty boy.”

Sherlock tilted his chin up the slightest bit and narrowed his eyes challengingly, waiting for her to make the move. “Nasty naughty boy. Naughty boy.”

Lady Grey’s lips stopped moving, and the track played, but neither of them were paying attention to it anymore. “Oh baby for all it's worth, I swear I'll be the first to blow your mind.”

She stepped towards him, and Sherlock spread his legs a little more, waiting for her approach.

“Now that you're ready, give it to me. Just give me that hot, sweet, sexy loving.”

He smirked, and then Lady Grey was standing between his legs, one knee on his thigh and her hands in his hair, tilting his head up for a sinful kiss.

“Now give me a little spanking.”

Sherlock cupped the back of her thighs and dragged her closer, opening his mouth to allow her tongue inside. She slipped her thighs over his, and Sherlock pulled her close until her arse was firmly sitting on his erection. The softness of Lady Grey's padded arse was unusual, but lovely and welcomed. After all, Sherlock wasn't there for authenticity; a woman's derriére and breasts never stimulated him, but this was different. He was all too happy to lose himself in those narrow cobalt eyes and hold her square jaw as he plundered her mouth. Sherlock ached to snap away those garters and run his hands beneath Lady Grey's lacey knickers and touch her rigid cock.

“Ohh, is that all you've got? Come on now, don't play with me!”

He gripped the back of her bustier and held her body close as he rolled his hips up into hers, his closed eyes squeezing in bittersweet agony. He needed her, needed to be inside of her, feel her stretching around him.

“Oh give me that hot, sweet, nasty; Boy don't you make me wait!”

Lady Grey’s fingers were scraping against his scalp as his hips thrusts under hers, almost to the point of pain, but Sherlock didn’t care. She could do what she wanted to him, and Sherlock would be helpless to stop her.

“Now you better give me a little taste. Put your icing on my cake, you nasty boy.”

Sherlock sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, positive that he was getting lipstick on them, but it was irrelevant. Everything was irrelevant, except for the lady in his lap and her hot mouth on his.

“Mmmm.”

The song faded with one last lecherous moan, and Lady Grey pulled away panting, her fingers trembling in his hair. As if noticing where she was for the first, she peered behind her and the room around them.

Sherlock was afraid to let her go, worried that she would vanish like some wishful apparition. Lady Grey focused back on Sherlock, looking down at him with playful eyes. “Hmm, maybe burgundy isn’t your colour, but I bet you’d look stunning in purple.” She snickered and Sherlock grinned, letting his forehead fall to rest on her chest.

“Sherlock.” His name in her voice nearly killed him, and like Pavlov’s dogs, his body responded to it immediately. Sherlock leant back to watch her, holding her cinched waist in his hands. “Do you still want me to—um—”

“Yes,” he interrupted, not patient enough to sit through her stammered question. He wanted to get her back to Baker Street and into his bed in the next hour, if possible. “Do you have another set?”

Lady Grey shook her head and tapped his chest to let her up. Reluctantly, Sherlock released her, but kept his hand securely at the small of her back as she climbed off of his lap. 

“Fortunately for you,” she teased, and threw him a wink over her shoulder, expecting him to follow as she headed for the door.

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed to the back of her blonde head, more for the sake of his libidinous thoughts than anything else. They emerged in the warmly lit corridor, taking a different route than the one Sherlock had taken to get to the parlour. The way took them through the densely packed backstage where the entertainers prepared for their sets, most scrambling to don their costumes and others casting the two of them curious looks from the reflection of their vanities as they passed.

Midway through, a show ended, and more dancers spilt into the room, crowding what little space was left, and Lady Grey reached back to take his hand, her smaller one fitting perfectly inside of his.

Finally, the door to her dressing room was in sight, and Sherlock could see the glow of her vanity lights seeping beneath it invitingly. Once they were inside, it was impossible to keep from drawing her close. She allowed it, spinning to slide her hands up his shoulders and around his neck to drag him down. For a moment, neither of them moved. Whatever happened outside of those dressing room doors was of no consequence, because nothing could sever the connection between them.

“Take me home,” she whispered. So he did.

 

-

 

Though a cab would have been the quickest way to get to Sherlock’s flat, the man decided to drag the two of them through every dark alley and back street on the way. It didn’t help that they would crowd one another every few minutes and spend five more doing their best impression of cellular fusion. In the sparse light, between smelly brick walls and wet concrete, John often didn’t know where he ended and Sherlock began, and there were hands everywhere—above him,  beside him, under him, but never exactly where John wanted them to be: Beneath his clothes. 

John was certain he hadn’t laughed that much in ages, and the experience was dizzying and lovely, but oddly enough, he still felt that small pinch of discomfort. When the main streets were unavoidable, John would often receive those dreaded double takes. The women knew straight away, they almost always knew the difference between a woman and a man in drag, no matter how professional the make-up. The men could be more easily fooled, and were often distracted first by the appearance of a scantily clad body, before even a glance at the face.

It wasn’t often that John left the club as Lady Grey, but when he did, some part of him still cringed away from the possibility that he could be recognised, or that someone would notice and say something. He’d been privy to a few hurled insults in passing, and a scathing look or two, but never anything outright violent. John was still a fighter, and with the way Sherlock stood close to him as they walked, he knew that no one would be brazen enough to say a word.

As John, this would all be highly inappropriate and borderline insane, but as Lady Grey, the vixen-in-red, the well-versed lover, it was right up her alley and he didn’t want to let this go. What if Sherlock thought that he was boring compared to her? What if John wiped away the make-up and Sherlock was disappointed with what he saw? Though John loved his Lady Grey persona, sometimes he loathed how long of a shadow she cast.

What could have been an hour since they’d left the cabaret, Sherlock led John past a darkened cafe and to a black-lacquered door with shining brass numbers: 221. With a patience and tranquillity that John knew Sherlock couldn’t possibly feel, the man pulled a set of keys from his coat pocket and unlocked the door with steady fingers.

John huddled close behind him, allowing Sherlock to feel the heat of his breath against the nape of his neck, just beneath the point his curls made at the knob of his spine. This  only caused Sherlock a momentary pause, but then the door was opening, and Sherlock was grasping his fingers to pull him through.

There were a set of dusty stairs and a door behind the staircase that John could only assume was another flat. Between the gap of the door and the floor, multi-coloured lights and the faint sound of a television audience filtered through.

Sherlock led him up the staircase, then caught him up at the second, pulling John over by the lapels of his coat for a succulent, lingering press of lips. The clash of mint and tobacco spilt over John’s palate and the slickness of Sherlock’s tongue invaded his mouth and waged war with his own. Sherlock’s hand over the small of his back burned hot as it splayed underneath his bustier and just above his sacrum, rubbing with intent. Sherlock’s questing fingers wrought shivers down his spine, and John didn’t care anymore where they finally fucked, as long as it happened soon.

“Come on, big boy,” John said (or rather, Lady Grey. John was slightly mortified that the words had even left his lips.) against his mouth, tilting his head up at the closed door at the landing of the staircase. “Open the door.”

Sherlock’s slanted, iridescent eyes narrowed, lips parting as he leant forward the slightest bit, before thinking better of it. His fingers curled on John’s back until the tips of his nails bit into the skin. It wasn’t intentional, it appeared, as Sherlock lightened his hold when John closed his eyes and gasped, thinking of those hands doing more and more.

“My wager, do you accept it?” Sherlock enquired suddenly. John had to wrack his brain for what the man could be referring to. Then, he remembered the text right before he’d gone to the parlour room. If Sherlock could make him beg, then John would have to accompany him to dinner.

John would have accepted any invitation that Sherlock extended, but it didn’t hurt for the man to have goals for the night. The sex would be phenomenal, and John wasn’t going to turn that down for the world.

“Fine, but Jesus Christ, if you keep talking, I don’t think we’ll make it inside.” 

Sherlock flashed him a handsome, lopsided smile that made his eyes glitter, and turned to jog up the last set of stairs without waiting for John. He threw the door open and started in. John followed at a more sedate pace. He hadn’t had trouble with his leg for years, but he still hated stairs.

Inside, John sighed in relief, shrugging his coat off his shoulders as he looked around. The flat was a chaotic mess of papers and odd items that people often collected over years. The wallpaper was ugly and out-of-date, but John had to give it credit for adding character to the room; well,  _ more  _ character. Sherlock had a strange sort of taste when it came to decorations. There was a bison skull over the desk between the couch and the sitting area, bedecked with a set of headphones. The desk itself was cluttered with overlapping stacks of paper and a simple reading lamp.

On the mantle above the fireplace was another skull, but what John recognised as an authentic human one. His eyes lingered there for a second longer, wondering if he should be worried, then scanned over the rest of the room. Mismatched, but comfortably worn in furniture, dusty floors and two large windows on either side of the desk that let in the multi-coloured lights of a well-traveled street.

To Lady Grey, it was a tossed paper away from living in squalor, but to John, he could see himself settling in nicely, sinking into the armchair after a long day and enjoying a cuppa in front of the fire. It was… comfortable.

Sherlock appeared again to take John’s coat, and hung it up next to his own on the rack by the door. Then, long arms were winding around his waist and entwining their hands together until they crossed to wrap around John’s torso. With a tilt, his neck was exposed, and Sherlock’s moist lips were catching against the soft skin of his throat. John could feel the hardness of Sherlock’s erection through the organza of his costume. Irene would surely skin him for wearing it outside of the cabaret, but in the heat of the moment, he’d only grabbed his coat as they made a hasty exit.

Now, John felt naked and exposed. The confidence that being Lady Grey often brought him was wearing away in the face of the situation. He would have to be John, he would have to take off his clothes and be a man, and Sherlock would see that everything he enjoyed about John was only a facade.  

“Stop thinking,” a caramel coated voice breathed into his ear, and John wanted to obey, but Sherlock had released one of his hands to rub patterns on the sliver of skin between his bustier and knickers.

John huffed a laugh and leant his head back onto a broad shoulder. “How did you know?”

Sherlock snorted. “You’re not very good at concealing your thoughts or your body language, John,” he scolded, and John couldn’t help the goose pimples that rose on his skin at hearing his name instead of Lady Grey’s. Of course, Sherlock noticed his reaction.

Behind him, Sherlock froze, then moved around John to stare down at him. His peregrine eyes scanned down John’s body thoroughly then swept up with a last flourish, concluding with a blink of realisation.

“John, as lovely and brilliant as I find your Lady Grey to be, it’s you that I’d planned on being with tonight.”

Just like that, the elephant in the room was revealed.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, weighing his words before he spoke, something that John got the feeling was unusual for a man like him, for whom speaking his thoughts as they came tended to be a primary reaction.

“Let’s clear up a few details, John,” Sherlock began sharply. “Women are not my area, and I assure you, though you make a beautiful one, I much prefer the idea of taking your clothes off and touching your cock, pulling  _ your _ hair, and hearing  _ you _ say my name.” Sherlock stepped close and sucked up all the air in the room with the gravitas of his words, spoken in all seriousness, while the man never once looked away.

John was intimidated but the thought of baring himself to this man, in a way he hadn’t in years to anyone. In all the years that John had worn his Lady Grey persona, he’d never stripped himself of her before anyone, and sex was always with someone he met as himself, never as the lady.

John knew that he wouldn’t be able to, not that night, maybe not for a while; he wasn’t ready. “I’m not sure I’m… I’m quite ready for that, Sherlock,” he said, still using  _ her  _ voice,  _ her  _ inflections, and  _ her  _ face. It was the face that had drawn Sherlock in to begin with.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, then cleared until he appeared perfectly impassive. His hands found John’s and held them between his own. “Then we’ll wait.”

John couldn’t smother the pang of disappointment, and it must have shown on his face, because Sherlock smirked. “That is, there are other things we could do that don’t involve removing all of our clothes.”

 

-

 

John grasped the sheets tightly beneath his fingers and pressed his hips up, his thighs quaking around Sherlock’s neck as the man wreaked havoc on his body, swirling his tongue around the edge of John’s arsehole in an unhurried, drawn out drag. The knickers were no good anymore, torn and tattered on the bedroom floor, the garters and organza tail along with them, but the stockings were still on. John hadn’t wanted to take them off. His feet weren’t dainty like Lady Grey’s were supposed to be, and he didn’t want Sherlock to see them, yet. 

Sherlock pointed his tongue and buried it inside of him, his breath hot on John’s hole as he panted. Sherlock had unzipped his trousers and released his cock from his pants, and if John tilted his head just a bit, he could see it hard, and red, bobbing up against his shirt as he brought John to the brink and back with his lecherous mouth.

He hadn’t begged yet, but the urge to do so was on the tip of his tongue. John didn’t know what he was trying to prove. He  _ wanted  _ Sherlock to take him to dinner, but still, he bit his lips and held it in.

God, but it wouldn’t be much longer before he surrendered. Sherlock worked his tongue better than anyone John had ever been with, and that one long-fingered hand lazily jerking his cock... John groaned, the sound coming out strangled and high as Sherlock released him and used both hands to spread him open and press forward until his entire face was obscured.

“ _ Jesus _ , Sherlock,” John sobbed, his toes curling as his eyes rolled back in his head.

Just as John thought that Sherlock might let him come, the man rose up to kneel between his legs, holding the soft backs of John’s knees as his hips canted forward. His rigid cock pressed hard and long against the slick crack of John’s arse, and from beneath lowered lids, grey eyes smouldered under a fringe of thick, dark lashes.

He wanted to have that length inside of him, ramming or slow, whichever way Sherlock preferred, as long as they both got off in the end. John licked his lips and thrust his hips up, watching as Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to his cock in obvious desire to touch it. Instead, Sherlock leant forward to press their lips together, his long, lean body covering John’s almost entirely.

One sweaty curl brushed against John’s forehead, tickling, and he reached up to push it away, which ended up with his hands pinned above his head and Sherlock’s cock thrusting against his hard enough for the backboard to hit the wall.

It was hot and rough and Sherlock’s sweat dripped on his face, and his on the pillow, but it was everything John hadn’t had in years; filthy, uninhibited, raw.

“God, yes,” John hissed, his fingernails scratching down Sherlock’s shirtless back. “Please.” He needed to come so badly, needed to see Sherlock come and those pretty eyes flutter shut in ecstasy.

Abruptly, Sherlock pulled back, breathing hard as he ran a hand through his slick curls. John was a mess before him, laid out indecorously, and probably blushing from head to toe. Without breaking their connection, Sherlock leant over and pulled his drawer out. He must’ve known precisely where everything was placed, because he didn’t even have to rummage around before his hand emerged wrapped tight around a tube of lubricant.

John nearly clamped his legs closed, but his curiosity held him still. What Sherlock said earlier, he wanted that, to wait until it could be him, but he wanted the man even more than that promise.

Sherlock shook his head, clearly reading his thoughts. “Not yet,” he corrected, and squeezed the contents of the tube over John’s cock and arse. John gasped at the shock of the slick, cool substance landing cool against his heated skin.

Sherlock ran over it with his palm, circling a hand around his cock and sliding it down, then flattening his fingers as he smoothed the viscous liquid into the crack of John’s arse. He leant forward on one hand, and pushed the pad of one finger against John’s hole with the other as he leant down to take his lips captive again.

With sure movements, the finger entered him, rubbing inside of him the further back it went, until Sherlock found what he’d been searching for. John’s breath hitched as Sherlock began to massage his prostate. He closed his  eyes in pleasure.

Another finger joined the first and John rode Sherlock’s hand, whimpering in a way that he never thought would come from him.

“Sherlock,” he cried, unable to tear his eyes away as Sherlock touched his own cock while John thrust against his hand. “Let me come, please, Sherlock. Iwannacome, Iwannacome, pleasepleaseplease.”

Sherlock merely observed, gazing down at John with a mixture of fascination and covetousness. Instead of complying, he added a third finger, bent down and swallowed John’s swollen bollocks in his slick mouth. John nearly screamed as he came, pulsing creamy shots of come all over the front of his -  _ Irene’s  _ \- bustier. Yup. She was going to make mincemeat out of him. “Fuck,” he wheezed. “Bloody  _ hell! _ ”

God…

_ God,  _ he wanted Sherlock’s cock in his mouth.

John reached up, pulling Sherlock’s mouth to his, and wrapped his hand around the man’s cock. Sherlock grunted into his mouth and ground down into his hand. Before he could come, John hooked a leg around Sherlock’s and rolled them so that he was straddling him. To his credit, he’d actually managed to surprise the man, and for that, John gave himself an imaginary pat on the back.

Without waiting for him to recover, John slid down his body, placing chaste, sloppy kisses on every surface of available skin. When he’d reached the point where he would have to slide off of Sherlock’s lap, John sat up, relishing the hard line of Sherlock erection between his cheeks. He rolled his hips forward, relishing the way Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut and his lips fell open.

Sherlock’s hands found their way to his hips and held firmly, trying to make him move, but John didn’t budge until a rumbling growl built its way up Sherlock’s throat. “ _ John! _ ”

John chuckled and leant down, pecking Sherlock’s lips sweetly with his own, then pushed his way down the bed to settle between his lover’s thighs.

John glanced up one last time to make sure that he had Sherlock’s full attention before he sank his mouth down onto Sherlock’s cock and relaxed his throat. A full-bellied moan filled the room, and quick, panting breaths followed as John set a torturous pace.

When he looked up, Sherlock was leaning back on his elbows, trying to keep his eyes open as John swallowed until the head of his erection hit the back of his throat. He dipped the tip of his tongue into the hole of Sherlock's cock and gave a long, slow suck, triumphing at the break in his lover's voice as he tried to say John’s name.

With one last lick, John pulled off, wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s spit-slicked cock, and lowered his lips to Sherlock’s sack. His bollocks had drawn in, as if he were about to come, so John didn’t envelop them just yet. He licked a teasing line over the seam of Sherlock’s balls and nudged the skin, tilting his head up to feel the weight of them rest on the tip of his nose.

Above him, Sherlock was chanting his name beneath his breath. Every whisper of his name brought a sense of rightness and reassurance that it was him that Sherlock was thinking of between his legs. The thought renewed his passion, and John surged up, smirking as Sherlock spread his long legs wider and thrust his hips toward John’s waiting mouth. John devoured him, leaving Sherlock sputtering above him as he sucked his cock with abandon, enjoying the wet squelch his lips made when they met his wet hand at the base of Sherlock erection.

A shout, and Sherlock’s thighs quivered as the sound drew out into a long, relieved groan. Pulses of viscous seed spilt past the rim of John’s lips, sliding down his chin where it dripped to fall onto the messy sheets.

John swallowed what he could before he moved over Sherlock’s leg to rest on his back, both of them panting up at the ceiling.

He was probably a mess. All that sweat had likely melted his make-up, and there was lipstick on Sherlock’s cock. God, but all of it had been lovely and wonderful, and John wanted to do it again and again. 

Minutes passed and neither of them said a word, choosing instead to bask in the ambience of one another and their shared sexual encounter.

Finally, Sherlock moved, sliding down the bed to lay next to him, one long leg slithering between his. Plush, swollen lips pressed a tragically tender kiss against John’s sweaty cheek. Then, he asked, “Can I keep you?”

And how could John possibly say no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates, excerpts, and all things Sherlockian! Thank you so much for reading. Feedback is always appreciated :)


	5. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene gives John the day to reconnect with himself. Sherlock learns more about him along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to my betas [Crickette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette) and [Morgan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan_Elektra/works) for making this story wonderful! Hope you enjoy this next chapter.
> 
> Playlist:
> 
> [Fever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOmHhKMpY24) by Beyoncé

“What do you do, then?” John asked, pushing an oily curl from Sherlock’s forehead, if only to get an unhindered view of his eyes, pewter grey now that the lights were off and the fervor had lessened to something more bearable.

His face felt sticky and disgusting after the exertion of their earlier activities, and soon John would have to leave. Sherlock wanted him to stay, could tell by the way he leant in whenever John's eyes flicked to the clock on Sherlock's nightstand, but that would mean eventually taking off his clothes and make-up, which he had no desire to do in front of Sherlock, yet.

John wanted to enjoy what time he had left with his lover, before Sherlock eventually came to see that John was just a boring, ordinary man underneath it all.

Sherlock’s eyes had barely left him and even in the faint light provided by the street lamps, they penetrated him to the very depths.

“Consulting Detective,” Sherlock answered, catching John’s hand as he withdrew it from Sherlock’s hair and placing a kiss on his knuckles. He set their intertwined hands on the bed between them. “The only one in the world.”

John grinned, because of course, this extraordinary man would have an extraordinary job. “Does it involve doing that thing you do?”

Sherlock’s dark brows furrowed. “What thing?”

“You know, when you pull facts out of thin air,” John clarified, slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t asked any of this sooner, before jumping into bed with the man.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, “deducing.”

“Is that what you call it?” John chuckled, though he sobered a bit when Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in a way that could be construed as offended. “I think it’s brilliant, but the delivery needs some work.”

A line appeared at the bridge of Sherlock’s nose as his brows furrowed again in bemusement. “What do you mean?”

John sighed, though he had to admit, he was sort of enjoying the act of catching Sherlock unawares. Sherlock Holmes confused seemed like a rare occurrence. “Well, you can’t just tell people the story of their lives before you even know their name.”

Sherlock seemed genuinely curious. The colour of his pale blue gaze appeared to shift colours as it caught the light. Sherlock’s lips curled, as if he were disgusted by the very notion of holding back his deductions. “Why not?”

“Because they’ll think you’re barmy, you nutter,” John laughed, scooting an inch closer to Sherlock as a draft passed through the room from the open window. “Most people don’t see things the way you do, genius.”

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course not,” he agreed. “Most people are idiots.”

John snorted, unlike Lady Grey, he noted somewhat bashfully, and reached back to grab a pillow, bringing it down over Sherlock’s curly head. “Your humility astounds me.”

Sherlock grabbed the pillow and threw it off, the bed, smiling as he wrapped a hand around John’s waist and pulled him forward. “Humility is boring,” he stated, low and gravelly as John’s leg slung over his hip. “Humility didn’t win me a certain wager.”

John closed his eyes briefly, basking in the proximity of their bodies and the warmth emanating from Sherlock’s skin.

“Hm, touché.”

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was staring at him with something akin to awe and intrigue, as if they were meeting for the first time and hadn’t just had sex. John’s pulse sped up, thumping loudly in his ears as a peculiar sensation welled up just below his sternum.

He wanted to believe that Sherlock would look at him like this forever; he wondered if someone would ever stare at him the same way, and inspire the same ardent longing.

No sooner had Sherlock blinked and released John from his thrall, than John was sitting up, trying to think of how he was going to get home without his knickers. Sherlock sat up, too, and ran a hand through his hair. The pair of them looked a right mess, but John found that he didn’t mind it at all. If he’d had his way, there would be many more nights like it.

“I should get going, then,” John sighed, his skin prickling as Sherlock’s eyes scanned him. He didn’t have to look to know that Sherlock was reading every little change in his body language. John knew that Sherlock had caught on to his evasiveness, but the man didn’t seem intent on calling him out on it. Instead, he moved silently to his wardrobe and pulled out a pair of sweats.

John took the offered clothing and pulled it on, too tired to really care how ridiculous he looked. He swept up the torn panties and garter belts, dreading the moment he would have to present them to Irene. She was going to be livid.

With Sherlock shadowing his steps, John made his way to the sitting room, fastidiously avoiding any reflective surfaces as he went. At the door, Sherlock reached around him to grab his coat from the rack, and held it open for John to slide his arms through, his bright eyes flitting over him restlessly.

It felt wrong to leave this way, when John knew that he’d rather be back in Sherlock’s bed, talking until the room grew pale with morning light. Sherlock knew it, too, by the way he radiated disapproval, but wisely chose not to speak on it.

In a move that John hadn’t been anticipating, Sherlock stepped into his space, his forehead nearly bent to John’s as he buttoned up his coat with nimble fingers. The gesture spoke volumes, as small as it was, but John had to look away and breathe, or else he’d do something stupid like tear up and embarrass himself.

It didn’t matter, though, because in that small, dark pocket of the world, Sherlock turned his chin up towards him and gently pressed their lips together. This time, there was no shoving and pulling, tearing away clothes. Just the two of them and the soft pressure of their mouths joined in a simple union; a message conveyed: I am yours, and you are mine.

-

“I will murder you in your sleep! Do you know I had this imported?!”

John cringed, already regretting not waiting until he was more awake before reporting to Irene’s Soho flat with the laundered remains of her costume. Not only that, but there was semen on the bustier, which he did not tell her. He’d simply taken it to the cleaners and left that little bit of information out.

John sighed and threw himself on her couch, hoping she would take the hint that she was about to be tuned out in the next five seconds. He wasn’t such a tosser that he wouldn’t at least give her a little time to rant to her heart’s desire.

“Irene, I will pay for it. I’ll be your indentured servant for however long it takes. Just stop yelling, please.”

Irene stomped her foot, which made John snort. Which in turned caused her to throw a fancy, embroidered pillow at his head. He grabbed it and snuggled it under his head, smiling at her aggrieved sigh. “John Watson, you owe me for life,” she hissed.

“Yes, yes, you said.”

Irene pushed him up and over, stronger than was usual for a woman of her small stature. “Now,” she said, grabbing her phone from the coffee table and sitting back with her legs folded beneath her. “Tell a girl all about it.”

John rolled his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the blush crawling up his neck. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” he grumbled.

Irene snorted in a very unladylike fashion and nudged him with her foot, before tucking it back to its previous position. “I don’t care. Besides, you’re currently sitting on my couch as John Watson, wearing an ugly jumper and khaki trousers, which I’d forbade you from doing the day I met you. So. No excuses.”

John groaned and closed his eyes. Always a dog with a bone, that woman. “Fine,” he conceded, but I’ll be needing tea for this conversation.”

John let himself into the kitchen and pulled Irene’s tin of tea bags from the top shelf, choosing one of her less gaudy mugs to set aside on the counter. He filled the electric kettle with water and turned it on, then sat back against the counter with his arms folded over his chest.

As hard as he tried, John couldn’t stop thinking about the goodbye kiss, about the entire night. He’d had an inkling that Sherlock would be an attentive lover, but what had transpired had been mind-blowing, otherworldly, and hopefully not a one-time thing. Even in all that, their final moment had been the most memorable. No one had ever touched him like that, cared for him in the way that Sherlock seemed to in that moment. Although their acquaintance had been brief, John felt that he’d known the man for a lifetime.

Then he’d left, and once again became boring, old John Watson living in a woman’s shadow.

John wondered how he could feel so tumultuously about a character he created for himself. He’d always loved Lady Grey and treasured her existence; she’d saved him. Now, it seemed like he was pitting himself against her for Sherlock’s favour. It was ridiculous.

When the water was done and his tea steeped, John took the cup back to the couch. Irene’s lukewarm Oolong sat untouched on the coffee table as the woman frowned down at her phone screen. The moment he returned, she clicked off her mobile and gave him her full attention. John stifled his sigh, realizing she wasn’t going to let it go, and took a sip of his tea.

“What do you want to know,” he enquired, finally, once he’d had time to prepare.

-

“And you didn’t stay,” Irene deadpanned, her knees pulled to her chest as she gave John the most unimpressed look in the history of unimpressed looks. She couldn’t look anymore disappointed with him, and the thought didn’t settle well. “Why?”

John pursed his lips, looking down at his hands. He already missed the reassuring weight of the cup between his fingers. “He’s not seen me as myself, yet.”

Irene was quiet, though he could hear the gears chugging and turning, putting two and two together as she mulled over his words. “John, you’re a drama queen.”

Incredulous, John turned to her, unsure he’d even heard her right. “What the hell, Irene?”

Irene rolled her eyes and closed some of the distance between them. “First order of business, I’m giving you the day off. Second, you are taking a break from Lady Grey for a few hours, and you are going to go out and meet people, like you used to.”

John shook his head slowly, bemused. “Irene, I used to be suicidal,” he snapped, annoyed that she would even think about barring him from the cabaret to go socialise. “There’s nothing wrong with being Lady Grey.”

“No,” she agreed, “there isn’t, but you’re losing your sense of self. I get that she’s this part of you, I do, but you are your own man, John Watson. An attractive one at that. Have you forgotten?”

John dropped his head, unable to look her in the eyes, knowing that she was too sharp to miss all of the doubt that shrouded him like a cloak. Lady Grey had protected him when he thought the world was going to collapse in on him. A life without her for the sake of someone he’d only met a week ago? It was unthinkable. Irene hadn’t ever asked him to give up his persona, or even to put it aside for a day. She loved Lady Grey, the people at the cabaret loved her, and the patrons. None of them knew John Watson, or cared to know him. What made Sherlock any different?

Irene didn’t relent.

“The man I met at the bar— the one I dragged out of a nasty little bedsit to watch drag queens in slummy clubs at midnight, and the one that is my friend— that’s John Watson. The lad that could walk into a room and charm the pants off of anyone, man or woman.”

Had he been that once? John couldn’t remember. Yet, when was the last time he’d even gone anywhere other than home and the cabaret?

John rubbed his forehead uncomfortably, already dreading a day without the music and the lights. He truly did love the cabaret and his persona, but perhaps Irene had a point.

-

The café John decided on wasn’t very big, but the stream of people going in and out seemed steady and the smell wafting from inside was delightful. He didn’t know why he’d chosen something so open, when he could have gone to a bar, slid into the booth and sipped his beer. It felt like one hurried, over-large step forward.

Inside, the café was packed, and most people spoke between tables as if they were familiar with one another. John seated himself in the back near a window and clicked his nails nervously against the tabletop.

Now that he was here, John wasn’t sure what he’d even set out to do. Since he’d started working with Irene, loud places didn’t get to him anymore, which is how he found himself wondering at the headache he was developing. How was it that this everyday life had become foreign to him, yet nights dressed as a woman, performing for complete strangers was the norm?

Finally, a young man came to the table to take his drink order and provided him with a menu to peruse. After he’d ordered, John sat back to observe his surroundings. People-watching had always been a thing for him, seeing all the little ticks and habits that one didn’t notice in passing, observing the way others interacted. In the army, he’d gotten used to it, keeping a sharp eye on everyone and everything. Yet, at the cabaret, the lights were blinding and the people came in multitudes, which made individual observation near impossible.

Now, there was neither the threat of an imminent attack, nor the spotlight to blind him, and John’s eyes were free to roam as they wished.

The café decor was festive and bright, while the waiters skirted around the room in white aprons. The music was low and subtle, nothing like the thumping, brassy sounds of the cabaret at top attendance, and the crowd was less rowdy.

In the corner, a young couple played on their phones, interspersed with sporadic bursts of conversation. Two tables over, a group of businessmen chatted over full plates and half-empty glasses of wine. Next to him, a woman read quietly on her Kindle, a desolate plate of crumbs before her. She was beautiful, short, and curvier than convention dictated, with brunette hair that fell to her shoulder in waves. Her doe-brown eyes flitted down her screen as she sipped from a mug, totally disconnected from the world around her as she immersed herself in whatever she was reading.

At another time in his life, John would have introduced himself, but the urge to do so wasn’t present now. The image of Sherlock right before John departed the night before had superimposed itself over every other thought and become priority.

His mind turned to the night they met, the grand opening of the cabaret. Sherlock had been arresting upon sight, and the way he stared at John... Even with half of his face bared, it hadn’t deterred him any. It would be ridiculous to think that a brilliant man who could look at him and read his history, could see half his face and be unable to put the rest together. Of course, being the idiot that he could be sometimes, John hadn’t thought to remember that. Instead, he’d been too wrapped up in his insecurities to realize how petty he might be acting.

Then again, there was nothing truly petty about the situation. He’d become disassociated with who he truly was, forgotten that there was a life outside of Lady Grey and the Looking Glass.

Then, Sherlock came along and wanted to see him, to know him. John had forgotten what it was like to be desired. He still didn’t feel completely comfortable with revealing himself to Sherlock, but more because the man was still a mystery to him. So, John thought to himself, that would have to be remedied.

-

Shortly after John left the cafe, he received a text from Sherlock enquiring about preferable venues for dinner, but John didn’t care one way or another as long as it was somewhere they could talk.

Two hours and a pound of make-up later, John found himself standing in front of an Italian bistro, wondering if maybe he’d underdressed. He’d never gone casual in drag before. Well, a cream-coloured pea coat that flared at the waist and hip-hugging denims weren’t so bad. He’d gone for a simple short and curly, honey blonde wig and light eyeshadow, instead of the more gaudy slapstick look he sometimes wore at the cabaret. Now, he felt silly dressing as Lady Grey at all.

Outside of Looking Glass, wearing her persona was unfamiliar and John didn’t appreciate the extra attention that came with it. He knew he ought to be used to it by now, but it added a layer of nerves to the set already building as he stood outside of the restaurant.

John took a deep breath and gathered his wits, remembering that underneath Lady Grey, there was a hardened, brave military man. He’d been to war before. This was nothing; this was easy.

The host at the door offered to take his coat, but John smiled and declined politely, intent on keeping it on. There was no harm in an extra layer between him and his date.

Sherlock, already seated, stood as John approached, his eyes scanning him scrupulously from head to toe. Even something so simple caused his stomach to flip flop pleasantly, and the skin of his neck to warm.

What he wasn’t expecting (because there was not a moment they shared in which Sherlock didn’t surprise him) was Sherlock to lean in and give him a chaste kiss. “Lovely as always,” Sherlock complimented, holding John’s hand as he slid into the booth, before he sat opposite.

“Thanks,” said John, leaning back in his seat. Under the table, Sherlock’s knees knocked unapologetically against his. “Anything good here?”

“Mostly everything,” Sherlock confirmed, sliding a glass over the table towards him. He nodded at it. “Cabernet.”

John hummed, pleased, and took a sip, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him over the wide rim of his own glass.

“You had the day off,” Sherlock stated, and John tilted his head, waiting for the man to continue.

Where other people may have found it odd when Sherlock deduced them, John rather enjoyed it. It was certainly different not to have the usual mundane questions thrown at him, like, “How was your day?” or his all time favourite, “What are your hobbies?”.

“You look well-rested. The first night we met, and since then, you’ve had heavy bags under your eyes, though you did quite an admirable job using the make-up to conceal them. Usually, you don’t bother with changing if you’ve come straight from the cabaret. Also, your cab came from the opposite direction. I suppose you could have gone a roundabout way, but you’re nothing if not prudent with your spending money, and the freshness of your perfume indicates a short ride from your flat, and not enough time for it to fade properly. If you’d come from the cabaret, even a short walk through the grand room, the fabric of your coat would have absorbed the smell of tobacco.”

John couldn’t stop his lips from curling up as Sherlock at last took a breath, gazing at him somewhat bashfully after he’d concluded his deduction.

“Brilliant,” he breathed. “Absolutely remarkable. Can you do that with everyone?”

Sherlock shrugged, intertwining his fingers around the glass. “Mostly.”

“Amazing,” John said, shaking his head in fascination. The most brilliant man in London, and he was taken with John, for some odd reason.

Sherlock’s pupils were large and endless underneath the soft, yellow light hanging over their booth. Once again, John was bewitched, enthralled, possibly even enamoured. “Do you know you do that out loud?” He asked, his voice even and rich.

Embarrassed, John pulled back a little, unaware that he’d been leaning over the table, attracted by Sherlock’s undeniable gravity. “Oh, I’m- … sorry. I’ll stop if you like.” Not even thirty minutes into being himself around Sherlock and he was mucking things up.”I’m just… I guess you could say I’m astonished.”

Sherlock slid his hand over the table and placed it over John’s, rubbing his thumb gently over his knuckles. “No, it’s—it’s fine. Just not used to it, is all. People don’t usually have anything positive to say about what I do, and I don’t expect them to.”

Curious, John asked, “What do they usually say?”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a tiny, secretive smile as he peered up at John from beneath his brows. “Piss off.”

Then, he chuckled quietly, and John joined, relieved that the tension between them was broken. He enjoyed being able to talk to Sherlock without walking on eggshells, and the conversation between them always flowed freely. It made him feel safe, and that thought alone made John want to build his walls right back up. He pressed his lips together and let his eyes fall to their hands on the table, the chuckle tapering off as he sobered.

When he looked up, Sherlock’s eyes caught his and held them, locked in some silent conversation in which words had no meaning, but this… this moment was all that mattered and the next was inconsequential.

The connection was severed when a jubilant man who introduced himself as Angelo bounded over, patting Sherlock roughly on the shoulder. To John’s surprise and silent delight, the man happily proclaimed that Sherlock had gotten him off a murder charge, proving that Angelo was across town breaking into cars at the same time as a violent crime was perpetrated. Sherlock seemed reticent about the whole affair, only adding that Angelo still did prison time, but as the man announced that the food was on the house and zipped away to procure a candle, Sherlock eased back into the role of self-confident, seriously intense gentleman with no trouble.

Another waiter stopped by to take their orders and Sherlock gradually began to ask more questions about him. After a few minimal answers, John finally began to relax and talk about himself. Even in Lady Grey’s voice, the stories of his army days came to him easily, and soon he was slipping into John Watson without even noticing it.

As always, Sherlock was attentive to him and asked questions in all the right places, hanging on every word as if he held all the answers to life’s questions, and not the sordid details of how he came to be back in London after nearly eight years of active duty in Afghanistan.

“And then you met Irene,” Sherlock said, and John nodded in agreement, sitting back contentedly as their plates were cleared away.

“And then I met Irene.” He paused, swallowing as he remembered the state he’d been in before she’d came along; holding the gun in his hands every night, contemplating suicide, toying with death. “I was in bad shape, then.”

Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes flitting over John’s face, over his cheeks, down his chin, and then finally, brought his pale gaze back up to meet his. “But what I can’t quite figure out is how Lady Grey came about.”

John raised his brows, mulling over the words he meant to say before he spoke.

“When I was younger, I used to let my sister dress me up in her clothes and make me up like a doll, and that was just what we did. I thought all little boys did those things with their sisters, until—well, until I grew up and met other boys my age. Anyway, in sixth form, I had this friend… we’d gotten close enough that we felt comfortable telling each other everything.”

John took in a shaky breath. He hadn’t talked about Peter in years, but his memory had haunted John for years, had urged him forward to pursue his persona as Lady Grey when he was afraid of what it would mean.

“He told me that he didn’t feel like he was supposed to be a man, that he felt trapped in his body. Peter hated it, acting like everything was alright, but he’d thought he was helpless, and I—I was young, too, and didn’t know how to help besides encouraging him to do what he wanted to.” John paused. “Sometimes, when no one else was home, we would steal his sister’s clothes and try them on for fun, but only when we were sure we’d be alone for hours. Then, one day Peter did it while I was away on holiday with my parents, and his dad came home and found him…When I came back, everyone said that Peter had been sent away somewhere to be ‘corrected’ or whatever shite they gave me. I never saw him again after that.”

John's eyes drifted beyond Sherlock's shoulder, remembering his delicate-boned friend, and Peter's bright laughter with fondness. Peter's father had been from Spain and a devout Catholic. He didn't believe that his son truly felt wrong in his own body. He’d put it down as mental illness and carted Peter away.

“But… For Peter and I, it wasn’t the same. That urge to be a woman wasn’t… isn’t there for me. At the end of the day I can shed her skin and be myself. But at a time when I wanted to be anyone but John Watson, Lady Grey was safe to me. She was beautiful and personable in a way that I couldn’t be when I came back from Afghanistan. She could make anyone laugh, and once the other queens got their hands on her, she could dance the pants off a seasoned showgirl.”

John pressed his lips together and shook his head at himself, annoyed that he’d rambled on and on without a thought to Sherlock. No one had asked about him in years, and it was as if all the memories had built and built until it all came splurging out in a tumble of words he hadn’t even consciously put together. “I don’t know, Sherlock,” he said, pursing his lips self-consciously. “Without her, I’m—”

“Remarkable,” Sherlock cut in, his brows furrowed as if he were confused by the words coming out of his mouth. “Interesting, intriguing, exciting. To meet you has been… not boring in the least,” he said. “The world can be such a dull, tedious place full of mindless idiots who don’t know how to use the evolutionary advantage of having larger brains than other mammals, just living out their little mundane existences. My mind, I… I constantly need a puzzle, something extraordinary to fuel it, whether that be from the cases that I solve or experiments, but rarely do I find someone who holds my attention the way you do, John.”

John felt his breath leave him in a gust of air as the tables turned and Sherlock became the vulnerable one for the first time in their brief companionship. This time, it was John who squeezed Sherlock’s hand and allowed him to talk.

“I’m still not sure what to think of this all, but being around you… it’s impossible for me not to be attracted to you,” Sherlock stated hesitantly.

John dropped his eyes and smiled, the burn in his cheeks returning with a vengeance. Sherlock meant him. God, and it all felt surreal.

“Come on,” Sherlock said after a moment, and stood to shrug on his coat. He was long and elegant in his bespoke suit, and the coat gave him a dramatic flair that John quite liked. Long legs, fit body, striking eyes, cutting cheekbones, and those curls all made for a stunning representation. John couldn’t tear his eyes away and Sherlock knew it, too, by his wry expression.

Once outside, they stood beside the door for a moment, neither of them wanting to go home to their empty flats alone. Then again, John hadn’t planned to either.

Sherlock stood close, looming over John with impressive skill; close enough that if he wanted to lean over for a kiss, he’d only have to bend just a few inches. John shoved his hands in his coat and rocked back on his heels in a way that was more himself than Lady Grey, but by that moment, it was all only a costume. There was only one way left in which to bare himself to Sherlock.

“Um, my flat isn’t very far from here,” John mentioned, half-smiling, mostly out of nerves than anything else. “If you want, you could come back with me.”

Sherlock’s lips were pressed together, but the skin around his eyes crinkled, as well as his cheeks as he fought a grin. “Is that what you want, John?”

John scratched the back of his head, fighting his developed tendency to deflect. Sherlock wasn’t planning on relenting, and John didn’t want him to. “Actually, yes, I do,” he replied.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, glinting playfully. “Yes?”

John rolled his eyes, chuckling. “Yes, you berk, come on.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand unthinkingly, and pulled him towards the kerb, putting out his hand for a cab. Beside him, Sherlock dipped to kiss John’s neck as he turned away.

“Good then,” he murmured against the skin. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for update info and all things Sherlockian! Thanks for reading and feedback is always appreciated.


	6. Love is the Drug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally tears down his walls, and Sherlock builds him back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well you guys! We've reached the end of this journey. First, thank you to my betas [Crickette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette) and [Morgan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan_Elektra/profile) for being so very spectacular and helping me to get this story out. You're both amazing! A big thanks to my readers and your support. You are all absolutely wonderful.
> 
> playlist: 
> 
> [ Love is the Drug](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rr45hyHCiMQ&spfreload=10) by Bryan Ferry  
> [Bad Boy Good Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZi_FHkvCr8) by Tape Five (last scene)
> 
> Also for the last scene, here's a video of the dance moves I used if anyone is interested.
> 
>  
> 
> [The Bees Knees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5kJHzNq5HBE)  
> [ The Charleston](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUqRAUxip4U)

Somewhere outside the open window, the brassy trill of a muted trumpet and thumping beat floated through, sensual and uptempo to add to the already potent ambience.

_“T’ain’t no big thing to wait for the bell to ring. T’ain’t no big thing, the toll of the bell…”_

They were sitting on the bench in front of John’s vanity—well, Sherlock was, anyway. John was a solid weight on his lap, all slick flesh and see-through garments. It didn’t take long to have those knees hooked around his and creamy thighs splayed obscenely as he helped John to remove his make-up.

_“Aggravated, spare for days; I troll downtown, the red light place.”_

Below John’s window, a gaggle of chortling women passed by, though it didn’t distract Sherlock from his most pressing objective.

John’s head tilted submissively to lay against his shoulder as Sherlock ran the warm washcloth over his cherry-stained lips, his free hand wrapped around the smaller man’s waist to rest on his belly. Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off their reflection, and the way John’s eyes gleamed as the vanity lights hit them.

_“Jump up, bubble up; what’s in store? Love is the drug and I need to score.”_

Sherlock had been surprised when they’d arrived at John’s modest flat and the man pulled him to the bedroom. Had Sherlock known what John wore underneath the innocuous shirt and the denims, he didn’t think he would have been able to sit through dinner. Then, he’d unhurriedly stripped to reveal a black corset that shaped his body and little black knickers with the usual—but never tiring—garter belts attached to matte black stockings with lace around the top.

At first, Sherlock wasn’t sure how to proceed, and when John stepped in the loo, he’d shifted from foot to foot. When John returned, he’d held a bowl of steaming water and a rag, which he sat at the vanity in his bedroom.

What Sherlock hadn’t been expecting was for John to take his hand and lead him to sit down on the bench in front of the vanity, and push the bowl towards him. Immediately, Sherlock knew what he was asking for, and the thought of fulfilling John’s wish excited him. Unwilling to take the distance between them any longer, Sherlock took his hand and pulled him over. John started to sit beside him, but Sherlock longed to feel his weight over him, to touch his skin and hold him.

Now they were here, and John had entrusted Sherlock with this, with _him_ , and he found that he couldn’t deny the man anything.

_“Showing out, showing out, hit and run. Boy meets girl, where the beat goes on.”_

John was watching him through lowered lids, soft and dark, vacillating between indigo and cobalt as he moved beneath the lights. A sheen of sweat had begun to gather over his collarbone, and at the nape of his neck, where Sherlock’s lips sat, as his chest heaved with every shallow breath. The hand on John’s clothed belly descended with torturous speed, and Sherlock could see the outline of John’s cock pressed against the seam of his knickers, twitching as it swelled.

John’s lower lip caught the towel as it brushed across, then released alluringly to reveal a mouth the colour of cherry blossoms. Sherlock skimmed his lips up to the underside of John’s jaw as he dropped the towel in the bowl where it turned the water a rosy shade.

_“Stitched up tight, can’t shake free. Love is the drug, got a hook on me.”_

He turned slightly, meeting John’s clouded gaze in the mirror as he stroked his thumb over his lips, enticed by the sight of them without lipstick.  John's lips were thinner without the make-up to embellish them, but just the same, Sherlock wanted to crowd him into the bed and kiss him into oblivion.

“The wig,” John whispered, as if a single word spoken aloud would shatter the moment. “You can take it off if you’d like.”

_“Oh, oh, catch that buzz. Love is the drug I'm thinking of.”_

Sherlock wet his lips, watching as John mimicked the movement in their reflection, as anticipation built the longer that he waited. His own eyes had gone soft and the pupils enlarged as John's body trembled with nerves. Sherlock could feel his heart quicken, and with bated breath he ran shaky fingers through the synthetic, blonde strands.

John's hands clamped tightly to the edge of the table, and Sherlock sought to calm him, running circles over his stomach with the flat of his palm.

John licked his lips again and swallowed. “It's not pinned down, you can just pull it off.”

_“Oh, oh, can’t you see, that love is the drug for me.”_

His pulse was in his throat as he smoothed back the fringe to grip the edge of the hair cap. Already, Sherlock could see bits of dirty blonde hair peeking from beneath it. He gently lifted it back, letting the cap drag over John’s flattened hair until it stood up, messy and unkempt, but utterly impeccable. Sherlock’s jaw slackened, allowing his lips to fall apart as piece-by-piece, John Watson replaced Lady Grey in a gut-clenching reveal.

Bits of brown shot through otherwise wheat-coloured strands, not as shiny as the synthetic hair, but healthy and trimmed. Sherlock ran his fingers through it, and buried his nose in the hair above John’s ear, where his scent was the strongest. Sweat, tea, women’s perfume, and a dusky, musk. God, he wanted more of this man, in any way he could have him.

Suddenly, Sherlock was hyper-aware of the man in his lap, the curve of John's back pressing into his stomach, his uneven breaths, the scratch of his fingernails against the table, and just how very little he had on.

The music played on, and Sherlock could no longer grasp hold of the lyrics. There was too much sensation, too much data, and not enough stimulation, but as every second passed he grew more greedy.

He reached over and retrieved the rag from the bowl, squeezing it to drain the excess water before he brought it to John's skin. Carefully, he drew it across John's cheeks, nose, forehead, temple, until Lady Grey had all but vanished. Sherlock stared, enthralled by the signs of old acne scars, the fading blush on John's upturned nose, strong jaw, narrow eyes beneath arched eyebrows.

“Can't imagine why you’d be ashamed,” Sherlock murmured into John's ear, placing the rag back in the bowl. “I want- I feel like I desire you even more now than I did a moment ago, if that's even possible.”

His legs were beginning to fall asleep, but they weren't yet finished, and Sherlock was determined to see this through.

“Yes, well…” John muttered, finally releasing his grip on the vanity table. His skin was flushed with excitement, but his chin dipped down to his chest, and he refused to meet Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. “You're not done yet.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed quietly, “but if you're expecting me to be disappointed then you're wrong.”

John cleared his throat, but failed to dignify Sherlock with a response.

Sherlock pinched his lips together, growing frustrated, but decided against arguing. John was being stubborn and nothing he said was going to change his mind. He would have to show him instead. Sherlock pulled the rag from the water and drained it before wrapping the rag around his index finger. John closed his eyes and waited.

Two seconds ticked by and Sherlock hadn't moved. Whatever it was that they were doing, it wasn't working for John, therefore, it wasn't working for him. Another few beats of tense stillness and John realized that Sherlock wasn't moving. Instead, he opened his mouth a said, “Stand up.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it, brows furrowed as he stood. “Sherlock, what-”

“Sit on the bed,” Sherlock ordered, standing straight to hover over John, partly in the hope that John would acquiesce, and also because of the overwhelming urge to take, to possess. John as Lady Grey was thrilling and alluring, but as himself, Sherlock had never felt half as tempted to uninhibit himself, to lay claim and conquer the territory of John's body.

He knew that John was probably wondering if he’d done something wrong, and the thought of him beating himself up didn't sit well with Sherlock. “I want to try something,” he said, in an attempt to ease John's worry.

John nodded, though the skin around his eyes was tight and his posture stiff as he approached the bed. Turning, he sank down, and boldly met Sherlock's gaze with an arched brow.

Sherlock kept firm eye contact as he erased the distance, deciding that it was better to show John what his trust meant to him. Much of this was unfamiliar to him; he’d never strived to make someone feel comfortable or even cared much for their feelings, but Sherlock found that he wanted John to enjoy being with him as himself.

Uncertain what else to do, he knelt and rested his hands on either side of John.

John's face softened and his shoulders, which had begun to hunch defensively, loosened. Without giving it much thought, Sherlock leant in and curled a hand around the nape of John’s neck. Saliva flooded his mouth at their proximity and anticipation of the smaller man’s taste on his tongue. He needed this to work, wished to see the man unguarded and open without the crutch of his public persona to stand on.

Sherlock jerked him forward and their lips collided in a flurry of hot breath and sharp nips. John responded eagerly and scooted forward so that his arse perched on the edge of the mattress and allowed his groin to push into Sherlock’s sternum. He delighted in being able to grab a handful of that blond crop and grip John tighter to himself.

A groan built in his throat as he pitched forward and used his free hand to reach around John to the zip of his corset. Sherlock managed to tear his lips away and tried to refrain from leaning back in as every nerve-ending in his body alighted with chaotic sensation. His fingers tingled where they rested on the tiny, metallic clasp.

“May I,” Sherlock asked, his voice broken and gravelly from the rush of emotions. _Because I need to see you_ , he didn’t say. He was feverish and desperate, standing on the brink of something life-altering with this extraordinary man that could get his heart pumping like a locked-room mystery. Sherlock was ready to face this head on, to spread John open and _know_ him unlike anyone else ever had.

John could have done nothing worse at that point but to reject him. Instead, John held his gaze and nodded, granting Sherlock permission to peel back another one of his layers.

With minimal effort, the zip came down, down, down, and then it fell away to reveal a waxed chest and erect, rosebud nipples. The sight of them made Sherlock’s throat constrict. He swallowed and tore his eyes away from John’s chest to take in the rest of his smooth torso. Unconsciously, his tongue darted out to wet his lips as his eyes passed over the dip of John’s bellybutton. Highly erotic fantasies played out in his mind, of pressing John down on his back and delving his tongue inside every crack and crevice of his body.

 John was left in just the knickers and stockings. Sherlock stroked the skin on the underside of John’s thighs, having allowed his hands to explore uncharted territory, his cock already straining against his trousers. There was something about this part of John’s body that made Sherlock light-headed and his groin flood with warmth. The weight of John’s supple flesh in his hands, the silken creaminess of his skin; it was mouth-watering.

 He unclipped the garter belts from the top of the stocking and hooked his fingers beneath the edge. Slowly, reverently, Sherlock pulled the silk down John’s legs, then bent to kiss each patch of revealed skin. With a hand cupping John’s ankle, Sherlock ran his tongue up the calf, doling out intermittent nips the further up he went. At his inner-thigh, Sherlock gripped the skin between his teeth and sucked in a way that he knew would elicit a response from the man above him.

John’s hands shot to the crown of his head and seized Sherlock’s curls between his fingers, his hold spasmodic as Sherlock flicked his tongue against the skin. “Fuck, Sherlock,” John rasped breathlessly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes to look up at him, his tongue darting out for a long, lecherous taste. “Mm,” he moaned, pitching his voice low and deep. “Spread your legs.”

His heart raced terribly fast and his erection grew uncomfortable without proper attention, but this was about John. This was all about John; undressing him, worshiping him, crawling inside him, filling him, fucking him. It was _all_ John, and Sherlock was helpless to stop his obsession.

John obeyed silently and spread his legs, pushing his pelvis forward and curling his toes into the carpet. His hooded eyes were bleary,pupils large and round, eclipsing the blue of his irises with dark discs as he returned the stare. The blush on John’s cheeks hadn’t faded and remnants of lipstick made his lips appear bright and swollen.

Sherlock pecked his way up to the potent area between John’s thigh and cock, where he stopped to bury his nose. The tickle of lace knickers made his nostrils itch, but he ignored it in favour of burrowing deeper. He cupped his hands beneath John’s arse and pulled him forward, turning so that his mouth brushed that covered erection.

Suddenly, it was all too much and Sherlock was drowning in John’s scent, freefalling in a way he never had before. He needed to retreat, to reign himself in or else he’d fall headfirst into this addiction like he had every other, but in such a way that was ten times as worse.

Growling, he ripped away to unclasp the other belt, and made quick work of the stockings. He had been planning on slowly stripping those knickers away, but he had to have him then, or he thought he just might die.

Irrational? Very much so, yet it all seemed so real.

If John denied him, Sherlock would wither away, because his survival depended on pushing himself inside of John’s body and staying there until they both met their end in one another’s hands.

John tipped his hips up as Sherlock's finger curled around the band of his garter belt and knickers, his lips parted on jagged breaths. The hand in Sherlock's hair grasped tightly as did the one tangled in the sheets. The last defense, the last remnant of Lady Grey pooled at John's feet in a puddle of dark lace. At last, Sherlock met John Watson.

Oh, but he was glorious in the midst of his flaws. Everything about him was a direct contradiction to Lady Grey and her delicate appearance. Underneath the persona, there was a hardened man, a soldier, a fighter, someone splendidly charming and singularly extraordinary.

The final latch on his restraint clicked away, and Sherlock surged forward, only to be stopped with a hand on his chest. He nearly growled, frustrated that he had a wonderful, naked man before him and nothing was happening.

“Wait,” John said, and closed his eyes to take a calming breath. “There's one more thing.”

Sherlock sat back on his heels, but kept his hands fastened to John’s knees, reluctant to lose contact.

John reached up to his left shoulder, and in a move that alarmed Sherlock, dug beneath the skin with his nails.

Sherlock moved to stop him. “John, what are-”

The skin peeled away, and - _stupid, stupid! Why hadn't he thought to ask?_ \- revealed a bullet wound. John pulled away silicone, not skin, and any other time, Sherlock would have seen it and known immediately. However, as was becoming the norm in John's presence, he’d been distracted.

It was a war wound, and most likely the reason for John being invalided from the army. The entrance wound would no doubt be smaller than the exit, but the size of it suggested a sniper rifle at long distance. It was a crack shot, very neat from the front, but Sherlock had yet to see the outlet.

“Usually, Irene helps me with this,” John said, and turned his shoulder, where another silicone prosthetic covered his exit wound.

Now that Sherlock began to truly observe, he could see where the make-up was a bit lighter than John's skin, though exceptionally blended and otherwise imperceptible. He cut his eyes to John to ensure his comfort. The man nodded his assent, watching Sherlock closely.

He reached up to touch it, his lips parted in awe. The prosthetic was smooth and rubbery to the touch, and Sherlock could feel the slight bumps and ridges of a ragged scar. His mind brought up a visual of a bullet tearing through John's shoulder and exploding as it ripped through tissue and muscle, before forcing its way out the back. It would have been excruciating and going by the size and feel of John's scar, his trouble hadn't ended there.

The bullet wound would have healed relatively neatly, but as the round shattered, it most likely had to be dug out in pieces from John's shoulder.

Sherlock carefully pulled away the prosthetic away to reveal built up scar tissue that originated from one point and branched out in bumpy ridges.

“Do you still feel it, sometimes?” Sherlock wondered aloud. Seven years was enough time to heal, but he was no stranger to the concept of phantom pain or nerve damage.

John nodded and shrugged his right shoulder. “Mostly after a rigorous number at the club, it will twinge for a while. It doesn’t hurt now, if you’re wondering. Honestly, I’d almost forgotten about it.”

John: Veteran, survivor, entertainer, lover. How else could the man possibly surprise him?

Sherlock bent to press a reverential kiss against John's scar, amazed that a man like him would find someone like himself appealing. In comparison, what did Sherlock have to offer but his brilliance?

If that was all, then Sherlock would make sure he dedicated every bit of it towards John’s pleasure tonight.

He leant forward, until his front was against John’s back and rested his lips against the smaller man’s tilted neck. “You’re beautiful.”

 

-

 

Sherlock could feel John’s pulse pounding away directly over his as the man leant down to capture his lips.

John was everywhere; wrapped around him, burning, the one fixed point that Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off. God, and the way those hips moved over him, it was fire and heat.

His hands descended to cup John’s arse in his hands and push him down on his cock until he bottomed out. Even as Sherlock fucked him, his mind traveled down grittier avenues, thoughts of their next time - because once would never be enough - and the slap of John’s arse cheeks against his lap until they turned a blushing red.

He hissed as John bore down and spread his legs to pump his hips up in vehement thrusts. John moaned as his prostate was prodded, and bit Sherlock’s lips with sharp, teasing nips.

John sat back and planted his feet with one hand behind him on the bed to steady his body as he swiveled his hips. As he moved, his cock slapped his belly with slick, wet noises, and Sherlock fought the urge to come as he grit his teeth and pushed up into John’s tight passage.

John’s neck was corded as he tilted it back, and Sherlock could see his pulse thumping in his neck. He was fighting an orgasm, which was all well and good, but Sherlock wanted to feel that wet heat spilling on his stomach.

He reached for John’s erection and wrapped his hand around it, staring into John’s hooded gaze with a challenge in his own. How much longer could he last?

John narrowed his eyes and clenched his muscles around Sherlock’s cock, until the man beneath him growled in pleasure. “You _are_ a devil,” Sherlock hissed, digging his fingernails into John’s arse.

John grinned. “Hmm, yes, I suppose.”

Sherlock glared up at him, though a smile curled the corner of his lips. “Yes?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then perhaps…” Sherlock pushed him off, chuckling at John’s surprise, which quickly turned into bliss as he was turned onto his belly and entered again.

Sherlock hooked a hand beneath John’s knee and pushed it up as he thrust inside, setting a fast, punishing pace. Beneath him, John grunted with every sharp aim at his prostate, groaning Sherlock’s name until it became unintelligible. A sheen of sweat made his spine glisten, and Sherlock longed to lick him clean. God, this was his, John was his, and to see him like this, fucking him, it was glorious.

The pressure in his groin built and built, threatening to send him over the edge, and Sherlock could see that John’s hand was beneath his body, moving, and his cries were reaching a crescendo; Sherlock wanted to be there with him when it happened.

He was losing his breath, and sweat dripped down from his curls to land on John’s back as he leant over him, pumping his hips. Then it came, blinding him as the orgasm washed through Sherlock’s body like a tidal wave, taking him up and up, only to brutally bring him crashing down.

John was quaking through his own release, his back muscles spasming as he moaned into the mattress. The scar moved, too, undulating as John’s shoulder shifted, and Sherlock thought the sight an enchanting one.

He collapsed partly over John’s back, his leg between his lover’s and his hand resting on the small of his back. It was perfect; _John_ was perfect.

John turned his head to face him, blinking into the dark as his eyes readjusted to Sherlock’s proximity. Slowly, he smiled and Sherlock returned it, something giddy and unfamiliar swelling inside of him.

“I won’t presume to know how you’re feeling all the time, or what you’re thinking. Sometimes I’ll be too busy to care, and there will be days where I want to be left alone, but never think for one second that you are the reason for it,” Sherlock said, staring into John’s warm indigo eyes. “Now that I’ve said all that, I’d like to take you to dinner again, and if it’s not too presumptuous of me, I’m hoping we can move forward from there.”

John’s smile grew. “I knew you had an agenda,” he chuckled quietly.

“I did,” Sherlock agreed, running his leg up John’s calf. “Since the night I met you.”

John snorted. “Ambitious, are we?”

“Oh, terribly so.”

They were nose-to-nose, and John’s warm breath fanned across his face as he laughed. Sherlock stared, unable to look away even for a moment. “This package comes with two… I hope you know that,” John said, and his smile faded slightly.

Sherlock skimmed his hand from the small of John’s back to circle his waist. “Then, I hope Lady Grey knows how to share.”

John giggled. “She does.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes flicking down to John’s moistened lips. “Good, one of us has to,” he whispered, and pushed John onto his back. He hoped to keep him there for the rest of the night.

 

-

 

_Three Months Later._

 

“Aw come on, John, everyone liked when you did it!”

John groaned. He’d only done it once, just because Irene wouldn’t shut up about it, and now here he was… _not_ dressed as Lady Grey.

Miss Vicky had thrown him in a white shirt and tight trousers, rolled up his sleeves, and slapped on some suspenders. She hadn’t stopped there. John looked ridiculous. She’d put blush on his cheeks and mascara on his lashes, and for the love of God, he even had guyliner. Ugh.

“It was fabulous, get on with it!”

John buried his face in his hands, sure that he saw Sherlock slip in the door five minutes ago. He knew his partner wouldn’t bother him during rehearsal but it still made him nervous to know that Sherlock would be watching.

Irene sat on the piano, laughing as the others badgered him to perform their new favourite set of his outside of his persona. “Get up their and shake your arse, or I’m docking your pay,” she sniffed, picking imaginary lint from her red wrap dress. “Your gentleman is watching.” She tilted her head towards the dim room, and sure enough, Sherlock sat elegant and cross-legged at the table nearest the door.

John’s shoulders slumped as a blush crawled up his neck. “Fine, Irene, but you rehearsed this number with me, so up. You, too, Miss Vicky.”

Missy Vicky clapped her hands, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she joined him, while the others sat eagerly to watch. Irene just rolled her eyes, but her smirk gave away her pleasure.

The music began on the speakers, the tinkling of a piano, before it picked up.

“Ready? One, two, three.”

He turned, and swept Irene up around the waist, swinging her in time with the music, then let her go. He stopped between them and they began the Charleston. Swiveling their legs as they took one step forward, kicked with the opposite leg, and then one step back, followed by another kick. The three of them kept up a fast pace, moving in synchronization until the lyrics picked up.

“The ballroom’s packed with cokey girls, satin frocks and shining pearls.”

One of the crew tossed him a fedora, which he spun deftly between his fingers before he donned it. He took Miss Vicky’s hand and waltzed with her, mouthing the words smugly.

“Click my fingers, ladies swoon.” John twirled her waiting until the small of her back returned to his palm before he dipped her. “Hottest dancer in the room.”

He spun her out of his arms and returned to the centre of the stage, where the women flanked him. They kicked their legs again, this time adding the Bees Knees. John bent forward after a kick forward and grabbed his knees, letting them click together, then straightened up for a back step.

Their small audience began to clap and hoot, laughing as John winked back. “I’m a bad boy, I need to dance. If I don’t dance, no romance. Feel like dancin’, dance with me. First dance is always free.”

The routine grew less coordinated from there, as they hadn’t done much with it to begin with, and soon, the others had joined them.

John swung with Miss Vicky, allowing her to lead as her long legs took them across the stage. He threw his head back and laughed as across the room, Irene shrieked, having been thrown in the air by one of the male dancers, and caught around the waist.

Once she’d recovered, on their next pass, Irene nicked his hat and put it on, blowing John a cheeky kiss.

John couldn’t stop grinning, watching his friends as they all danced around without a care. As they’d always done, his peers had shown their support the first time John did a number without Lady Grey’s persona. At first, he was nervous, but as the music played, everything else faded and John left himself at the mercy of his feet.

The song ended, and the others collapsed in various places around the stage giggling, but John was already jumping off the stage and moving towards the darkened corner of the room where Sherlock waited for him.

Sherlock stood as he came closer, that oddly handsome crooked smile on his lips. “John,” he greeted, stepping forward to wrap his arm around John’s waist and place a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. “Magnificent, as always.”

Sherlock said it often, but the flutters in John’s chest never ceased when he heard it. “Sherlock,” he murmured in his ear, then pulled away.

“Lestrade is being extremely thick today. I wasn’t able to get here any earlier,” Sherlock explained, his nose wrinkled as he mentioned the Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard.

John scratched his neck, glancing back towards the stage where rehearsals were wrapping up. “Good case, then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard, John thought they just might come tumbling out. “Not even a five,” he pouted. “But, I did receive an interesting email...”

John raised his eyebrows, waiting for Sherlock to continue.

“From a Mr Mortimer Tregennis in Cornwall. He claims he played a game of Poker with a group of siblings - a woman and her two brothers. When he returned later in the day, the sister was dead while the brothers allegedly laughed hysterically and continued to play cards.”

John furrowed his brows, shooting Sherlock a stern look. “And you’re going by yourself?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, but he kept a straight face and replied, “Maybe.”

John knew that look. He sighed, turning to see that the stage was mostly empty, save for a few stragglers. He regarded Sherlock sceptically. “When are you leaving?”

“In a few hours, I hope.”

“Oh,” John muttered, disappointed that Sherlock wouldn’t turn up at his flat like he was prone to doing.

“Will you come?”

John’s head shot up. He’d been on a few cases with Sherlock, but never one that took them out of the city. It was Sunday, and John wasn’t headlining that night, but he still wasn’t sure that Irene would be too happy about him skipping out. “I don’t know, Sherlock. Irene-”

“Taken care of,” Sherlock cut in, smirking at John’s expression morphed from surprise to disbelief.

“You utter cock- you planned this?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I didn’t _plan_ a murder, John. Though, the timing is impeccable.”

John restrained the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Only Sherlock Holmes could find positivity in murder.

“Besides,” Sherlock said, “this shouldn’t take long to solve, and Irene gave you a few days leave.”

John’s eyes widened, caught between the urge to kiss Sherlock and punch him. He hadn’t had that long away from the cabaret in years.

Then again, a holiday sounded like a splendid idea. It also sounded like plenty of spectacular, mind-blowing sex.

The way that Sherlock’s eyes gleamed mischievously alerted John that there was a possibility he knew exactly what he was thinking.

John let out a breath, knowing that he’d already lost, and not a bit put out over it. “Fine, let me get my coat.”

Sherlock smiled triumphantly. “I’ll come with you.”

John stuck out a hand to stop him following. “Not happening. Remember when Irene walked in on us? Yes, not going to happen again,” he stated firmly. Just a few weeks ago, Sherlock was buggering his brains out on the vanity table and Irene barged in the door, only to eye Sherlock’s arse appreciatively until John shouted at her to get out.

Sherlock followed him anyway, and John didn’t try to stop him. It was all fine, and besides, he had a lock on the door now.

At his dressing room, he turned to Sherlock, grinning as he opened the door behind him. The man crowded him back into the room, already sliding off his coat.

John wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss as Sherlock kicked the door closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates and all things Sherlockian. Feedback is always appreciated! Until next time ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for more update info, to chat, and all things Holmesian! 
> 
> Feedback is always welcomed and encouraged! Thank you for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In These Shoes? (A Lady Grey One-shot)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11929269) by [PlantsAreNeat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlantsAreNeat/pseuds/PlantsAreNeat)




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